


Devil Takes the Waltz

by Sonderxxx



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: ;), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Clexa, Clexaweek2020, Dark, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Forbidden Love, Lovers To Enemies, Morally Bankrupt Female Characters, Porn With Plot, Smut, Sort of a twist on Mr and Mrs Smith, Supervillain AU, Supervillains, The Clexa Villain AU, Villains, and notorious supervillains Wanheda and the Commander are at war with one another, clexaweek2020 day 7, day 7 free day, featuring political conspiracies magical powers and a very dark take on Clexa, flash flood smut, little do they know their secret identities- Clarke and Lexa- happen to be dating, slow burn emotions, where Polis is a city rife with corruption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonderxxx/pseuds/Sonderxxx
Summary: “I tried to be the good guy, but it didn’t work. Now I’ll kill anyone that gets in my way.”“Including me?”The kiss Clarke gives her lingers on her lips as softly as her next words. “Especially you.”
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 183
Kudos: 675
Collections: Clexaweek2020





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my betas Lil and Hedakwin for everything you do, ta you're the best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Clexa villain au, where Polis is a city rife with corruption and notorious supervillains Wanheda and the Commander are at war with each other. Little do they know their secret identities happen to be dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will have more specific tags/warning listed at the end of the chapter notes that way it's not too spoilery. The main thing this fic will have is lots of explicit smut, and then there is going to be some violence too, but nothing too explicit.

The world feels heavy.

It’s late Saturday night and Polis City is sleeping. The streets are bathed in neon lights, reflecting orange and indigo in the puddles on the pavement, and under normal circumstances, places would be alive right now— partygoers slipping into clubs, drunks staggering into alleys. Not tonight. Not even the hush of rain drowns out the sorrow that keeps people inside, doors shut and curtains drawn. Fear and devastation suffuse the misty air, and Clarke Griffin lay smothered beneath it all. 

_“He’s dead.”_

_“No way. How can he be dead? He can’t be dead.”_

_“He is, I’m telling you, I watched it happen.”_

_“How is that even possible?”_

_“What sort of rubbish question is that? They’re superheroes, not gods. They can die. Don’t you remember what happened to Arkadia?”_

The pavement is cold and wet on her back but she pays it little mind. The tail of her shirt has long been drenched but she can still smell it smoldering, sharp and bitter in her nostrils. She ignores that too. Stares up above at the swirling grey of the night sky. It’s almost three in the morning but there’s not a star in sight— never is in this city, air clogged up with pollution and city lights. It makes her long for something new. Empty plains. A beach. A forest. Anything. All she has here is stone and rubble, blood and stabbing gossip that roars through the city like a whispered wildfire. And then there’s the rain.

She watches it fall without flinching even as it lands less than an inch from her eyes. Watches the splatter, the way it slides to either side, racing down in such a way it reminds her of her childhood. Long lorry rides with her dad, urging her chosen raindrop to win the race across the passenger side window. There’s a hollow ache in her chest at the thought. Weak. She pushes it away.

_“ — and we are reporting live from Tondc street, I repeat, Spacewalker has been killed. His body was stolen from the custody of the Polis Police Department and there’s already an investigation underway—”_

Clarke closes her eyes. Nothing stops the memories of earlier this evening from curling into her ears, insidious and demanding.

_“ — we have eyewitness reports that a new villain has emerged and was caught at the scene of the crime.”_

_“ — she was terrifying, red hair, all covered in blood like a demon! She’s crazy, took down all those kids like BAM BAM BAM, no mercy! Spacewalker, he tried to stop her but it was too late—”_

_“This new villain has not yet made any public declarations as to her identity or what she wants. At this point her powers are unclear, though key witnesses have given disturbing reports. People, we cannot urge you enough: this woman is_ extremely _dangerous._ Do not _under_ any _circumstances approach—”_

_“It freaks me out. I just feel, like, scared, you know? I mean Spacewalker, he was a real hero. He kept us safe. What are we going to do now? Who’s going to protect us with lunatics like that loose on the streets? The Natblida are bad enough, now we got someone like that knocking on our doors too? Feels like there’s more psychos than heroes these days!”_

Clarke exhales a shaky sigh. The rain beats down on her shield and she lets it slowly overtake; gradually withdraws her ward until it dissipates, and the rain hits her with the force of a thousand bullets, slamming into her frozen skin. She bites the inside of her cheek, ignoring the kick of her heart. It burns like fire where the rain washes away the blood staining her hands. 

It had been less than four hours since she saw Finn but the rumours were spreading through Polis faster than she could keep up with. In less than a quarter of a day, she’d suddenly gone from entirely anonymous to being given a name of her very own.

Wanheda. 

The Commander of Death.

She closes her eyes when the tears start to build. This isn’t what she wanted. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. She’s lying in her own ruins, now.

But it isn’t over. She clenches her hands into fists, short nails scraping the pavement and leaving behind loose pebbles. Her shield surges with her emotions, sends the rain back up, splattering the windows of the nearby buildings towering above. She slowly clambers to her feet, muscles screaming with the effort. Her hands are pink now; part of her wonders if the blood will ever be scrubbed clean. If it even should be, considering her future plans. 

She’s had enough. That’s all she can think. All she can feel, pulsating deep in the pit of her stomach with a fury that threatens to swallow her whole. She’s had enough and at the same time, this has only just begun.

Clarke lifts her wrist to look at her father’s cracked watch. It’s _3:07._

Time to move.

* * *

_Present Day_

It’s been storming for three days now. 

Lexa stands at the window, gaze tracking the rivets carving down the glass. They follow the same tracks as the ones on her face. If she unfocuses her gaze the blood all but disappears. The colour of her eyes seems considerably darker in the reflection and she’s not certain if it’s the rain or the rage. Both, perhaps.

Once, it bothered her to look at herself in times such as these. The blood caking her skin, the bruising of her knuckles, the impious veracity unrestrained in her gaze. Now, years later, the only thing she feels is a mild irritation at the inefficient air con for the way it curls her hair into wispy tendrils that cling to her skin. She glides her hand over it, plastering it back with the blood and sweat ready at hand. It’s a lost cause, really. She distracts herself from it by turning from the window to retrieve a glass from the cupboard above the kitchen bar. Pours herself another round and then lingers there, leaning against the counter that faces the living room. 

This isn’t her home, but she’s here so often it may as well be. It certainly suits her. Cold and immaculate. Dark, lit only by the lamps at the end tables and the muted television Lexa has mostly been ignoring, uninterested in the current news report. She glances at the screen now, releasing a sigh through her nostrils at seeing the same thing that’s been playing on repeat all day long.

_“ — and as if Polis isn’t mourning enough after the now infamous Hakeldama that took place less than a week ago, today also marks the ten year anniversary of Spacewalker’s death. Long-time fans will gather in the city courtyard this evening for the annual lantern floating ceremony—”_

Lexa tunes out. The ice clinks gently in the glass as she brings it to her lips, sips with her eyes closed and listens to the storm and the music crooning from the speakers on the kitchen counter. _An der schönen blauen Donau._ The whiskey coats the back of her throat, herbal and smokey, and it almost makes up for the disappointment of the evening.

She stiffens as the disappointment makes itself known. Her jaw clenches, grip tightening on her glass of whiskey when the whimpers of the man on the floor below interrupt the low rumble of thunder and the soft crooning of music. Lexa clenches her teeth as she puts the top back on the bottle of whiskey and leaves, still holding her glass.

“What did I tell you?” she asks, voice sharp and commanding as she descends the staircase into the depths of her basement. He struggles against his restraints, panicked eyes widening when she emerges. She crosses the room to him and pauses at the small table beside him. The man continues straining but she ignores him, head bowed as she filters through the box of objects and finally pulls out rags and a roll of duct tape. The man positively howls when he sees them.

“No one,” Lexa says smoothly as she grasps him by the chin and forces his mouth open, shoving the rags into his mouth and down his throat to drown his shouts until they’re gargles and then strangled grunts, “Is coming,” She forces his mouth shut and tears strips of duct tape off with her teeth, pressing them over his mouth and his nostrils, “For you.” She slams a fist down on his forearm for good measure, right over the gaping wound left behind from when she removed the tracker and crushed it before bringing him here.

She wanders back over to her table to retrieve the glass of whiskey she’d set down, and returns to watch the man as his eyes wheel and his face turns bluer than it already is. She holds her whiskey in one hand while she uses the other to strip the tape and yank the rag out of his throat. Lexa sips at her drink and watches apathetically as he sucks down wild gasps.

“No one is coming for you, Lovejoy. If you scream again, I’ll start removing the parts of you I don’t feel as though you’ll need. Understand?” Lovejoy gives a jerky, blubbering nod. Lexa tips her glass back to swallow the last dregs. “Good.” 

Lovejoy’s terrified gaze tracks her movements as she sets the cup down and rolls her head, cracking her neck and her stiff knuckles. His terror is palpable but Lexa has no problem tuning it out as she sets up her work. 

“I’m going to ask you again,” she says calmly, lowering the mechanism to hover over his head. It bathes his pallid face in a silvery light, illuminating the rusted heads of the nails where blood crusts over around the threads embedded in his bruised skin. Tears leak from his bloodshot eyes as she leans over him. “Who is she?”

“I already told you,” he chokes, eyes wheeling in terror as the sharp blade begins lowering to his skull. “I don’t know, I don’t know who she is— I already told you everything I know, I swear!”

He doesn’t seem to be lying. No change in blood flow, though his heart is already accelerated. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone put on an act. 

“My people found you selling Red on her territory,” Lexa says coldly. She’s losing her patience. This is day three with Sergeant Lovejoy, and so far she’s learnt nothing except the man is a crier. 

“I wasn’t selling. I wasn’t!” he yells when Lexa begins lowering the Shank. “I was sniffing out the place, that’s all!”

“For who?” When Lovejoy doesn’t immediately answer, Lexa grips him by the face, long fingers digging into the hollow of his bruised cheeks, forcing him to look at her. “I know it wasn’t Dante, and there’s no way you reached Cage. Mount Weather was just put out of business so don’t even try to lie. Was it _her?”_

For the first time in days, Lovejoy stops with the act. His features slacken, wrinkles disappearing, though the dried blood remains behind in jagged lines. He looks at Lexa entirely devoid of expression, save for the manic fury glinting in his bloodshot eyes. 

He leans forward, baring his teeth when Lexa’s fingers dig into his face, leaning even when the shank begins squeezing around his head, and when he finally speaks, it’s the first time fury has overwhelmed the fear in his voice.

“Fuck. You.”

Lexa finally allows the shadow of rage to crawl across her features. Even with his own fury, Lovejoy falters before it, chin tripling as he cows away. Lexa leans close, upper lip curling as she bares her teeth, and Lovejoy squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers when she presses a single fingertip to the centre of his forehead. 

She can tell, with the way his lips thin into a flat line and his eyes turn hard, that he is working very hard to resist giving her the satisfaction of watching the pain affect him. They always do this, always assume she gleans some sort of gratification out of their suffering. They are wrong. Perhaps once she did, but now she feels little to nothing as she drags her finger down in tiny increments, splitting his flesh as she does so, opening it like a zipper. Lexa has been numb for so long she can scarcely remember a time when she wasn’t. It is true that doing this— punishing her enemies, getting justice for those who don’t even know they’re getting it— feels good. But everything else is just a necessity. 

As his skin tears away, Lovejoy loses his fight. He screams.

They always do.

* * *

“I just mopped the floors yesterday,” Titus tells her flatly a couple of hours later when he emerges, scowling, from the basement and stands there in the middle of her kitchen, looking oddly out of place amongst the gleaming marble countertops with his sweeping black cloak. He always has been one for aesthetics.

Lexa spares him an indifferent glance, sipping at the coffee warming her hands. To her credit, she’d already done the majority of the cleaning. The blood splattered across the walls was already disposed of. “Would you prefer I let him live?” 

“I would rather you had Wanheda in the chair instead."

“In a perfect world she would be,” Lexa says dryly, ignoring Titus’s poor mood in favor of eating the last of her burger.

“Are you any closer to discovering her whereabouts?”

“Obviously not.”

Titus gives a long-suffering sigh, as though this were tedious for _him_ and not for Lexa, who’s been trying to cleanse her city for a good decade now. 

“Here.” He drops the wire and microphone into her lap. 

“Were you able to find out who ordered this?” Lexa inspects it closely, shifting her hand in the air above it to drag away the last of the blood smeared on the plastic, clenching her fist to break it down.

“No. But I made sure it transmitted the recording before I shut it off.”

Lexa nods absently, wrapping the wire around the box and setting it on the nightstand. She’s sure it was Tsing. As far as Lexa knows, she was one of the few the news hadn’t mentioned in the Mount Weather scandal, and the stations had been reporting on that nonstop for the past week. Lexa glances at the television and there it is now, the reporter standing before the sectioned off piles of ash. She clenches her jaw and grabs the remote to unmute. 

“ — shaken by the events of Hakeldama, though Mayor Diana Sydney promises justice for the families of the victims. Evidence found in the ruined remains led to the arrest of Dante Wallace in connection with the outbreak of the mysterious Red, a class A drug that has been wreaking havoc on the streets of Polis for years and continues to gain ground even now despite the Polis PD’s crackdowns and the destruction of Mount Weather. Authorities are still searching for the elusive Wanheda, who managed to escape moments after the factory’s explosion that killed almost everyone inside. Though witnesses report she appeared injured, we still urge anyone that sees her to call the police right away. She is still extremely dangerous and should not be approa—”

Lexa clicks the next channel and is not surprised to see the next news station is reporting on it too. This reporter stands outside the memorial dedicated to Spacewalker— a metal statue of a two-headed deer situated before a chain-link fence covered in gifts and locks, all pledging love and well-wishes to the fallen hero. “ —in the middle of the night, the entire facility exploded. The few survivors who made it remain hospitalized in critical condition even now. Police do not yet have any leads on what caused the explosion, which is what leads them to believe it may have been influenced by the Others.” _And here it is,_ thinks Lexa, unmoving while beside her Titus leans forward to the edge of his seat, the skin around his narrowed eyes tightening. “Due to the nature of those involved, the deaths of innocent civilians, and the fact that several witnesses reported seeing Wanheda escape the burning building, we believe this may have been an attack from another villain—specifically, The Commander.”

“All the death you have caused and they claim you on the one you didn’t,” mutters Titus, glaring at the screen now with disdain. 

“Are you really surprised?” Lexa doesn’t betray the twitch of irritation in her gut. It’s not that it bothers her that the city has found her capable of such destruction— after all, she’s shown before exactly what she’s capable of, and this, she supposes, is proof of that. No, what irritates her is the fact that this frames her as having made yet another move on someone and _failed_. This, above all things, gives Wanheda more power. Makes her seem like Lexa considers her to be a threat— considers her to be an equal.

And that just won’t do.

For the past few years since Wanheda’s return to the world, she and Lexa have maintained a respectable distance. They’ve gravitated in the same orbit, but never actually crossed paths. They’ve never needed to because Wanheda’s never been in the way. She’s actually even served as beneficial to Lexa before, when she took down Azgeda outposts hiding out in the Dead Zone. 

But now? Now things are different. 

The next news station is on the same subject, though they sit around a table like this is a casual conversation to have on _Polis Evening News._ “ — I’m sensing a pattern, here, Jim, that’s all I’m saying.”

The impatient voice of the only man at the table cuts across the chatter of the room. “Okay, let’s put a timeline on this, alright? So seven years ago, Wanheda makes her appearance with the Tondc Massacre— huge casualties, women, children dead, chaos. Days later, she’s challenged by Spacewalker and kills him, however she managed that. Then we have the dark days— Praimfaya.”

There’s a collective murmur of dismay among the audience, mirrored in the sombre expressions of the hosts. 

“Wanheda wasn’t the only contributor to Praimfaya,” argues the woman sitting directly across from him. “If we’re bringing Praimfaya into this, we need to go way back. It wasn’t Wanheda who initiated Praimfaya in the first place. I think most of that blame lies on the Commander’s shoulders.”

Everyone breaks into noises of agreement or protest.

“Right, Susan, yeah, Wanheda wasn’t the only contributor, I didn’t say she was,” says Jim, leaning forward in his seat with a glare fixed on Susan. “But I don’t think it’s fair to argue that it’s all because of the Commander, either. There are some who worship the Commander!” 

“But she’s not a hero.”

“No, I didn’t say that. I know she’s not a hero. She kills people and sometimes she takes it too far. But, I’m just saying, sometimes she kills the _right_ people! She killed Nia!”

“Along with hundreds of other people,” Susan snaps. Several audience members clap in support of her. Lexa looks deadpan at Titus when he twists around to scowl disbelievingly at her.

“We’re getting sidetracked!” says another host, waving down the audience’s chatter. She indicates for Jim to continue.

“Praimfaya lasts, what, five years? Then we get radio silence for nearly a year. Wanheda vanishes off the face of the planet and then she comes back and now look what’s happening. Mount Weather has stood for a century and now it’s gone. Just like Tondc, just like the Dropship, just like the Polis Bridge. All of it, gone. What’s the common denominator here? Wanheda.”

“You’re going to have to take care of this,” Titus says lowly. 

Lexa ignores him, scrutinizing the television as she absently rubs the pad of her thumb over the handle of her mug. 

“ — she’s impinging on the Commander’s turf and last time that happened with the Azgeda, we found Nia Winter’s body pinned to her throne by the Commander’s spear. White as a ghost, no blood left, no mercy. And that was basically because she was costing the Commander some money, so now with what Wanheda is doing, essentially taking over the whole city...I think the question now isn’t so much ‘when is the Commander going to do something about it,’ but _‘can_ the Commander even _do_ anything about it at all? Or is she too scared to—”

The television is shut off abruptly, dowsing the already dim room in even less light. Titus has twisted around to stare at Lexa, outrage in his eyes, but Lexa is silent and still. She shifts her clenched jaw, glaring at the fading light emanating from the screen. She can feel the fury stirring, growing, feel it in the swell of sickly pressure just behind her eyes. 

Wanheda has been the bane of Lexa’s existence for some time now, but no more. 

Lexa exhales her held breath, letting it hiss out between her teeth, when the silence is interrupted by the ringing of a phone. Titus just watches her silently as she stands, places the remote on the table and makes her way over to the bag slumped across the kitchen barstools. Digs through the half a dozen burners to find the right one, gently chiming. Hates the irregular jump of her heart when she sees who’s calling.

“Is Anya back?” Titus asks unexpectedly.

“No.” 

Titus grunts a second later, when comprehension sinks in— or perhaps when he remembers the different chimes of the different burners. 

“The girlfriend.”

“You don’t have to sound so disapproving,” Lexa says mildly as she opens the phone, swipes away the missed call notification to pull open her latest texts. “You were the one who proposed I get one.”

“Anya suggested it, not me.”

“But you agreed to it.”

Titus merely grunts again, noncommittally, in response. If Lexa were younger, she’d roll her eyes. Now she merely tunes him out as she types back a response to the offer to meet somewhere for dinner after work.

“I’m leaving. I need to shower and get a few things in order before I meet her for dinner.”

“You just ate.”

“Murder always works up an appetite,” she says darkly. It does as she expected and relaxes Titus, has him giving her an exasperated look that on anyone else would look like annoyance, but serves as the closest thing to amusement on him.

Lexa gathers her coat and her bag and pauses just before the door. Titus is already up and cleaning the kitchen counters, even though Lexa already left them spotless.

“I have a plan for Wanheda. I’ll fill you in some time tonight."

Titus pauses, looking up at her with surprise and then, a beat later, a grim satisfaction. He nods slowly, resuming wiping down the countertop, and Lexa leaves without another word. 

It’s still pissing it down outside. She flicks her hand, has her umbrella hover above her head so she can use both hands to root around in her bag again. She has a few hours before the time she agreed to meet for dinner. Enough time to do what needs to be done. She pulls another burner out of her bag, flips it open and hits the speed-dial. She’s walking toward the barrier that her car sits just beyond, near the tunnels that run below Polis, when Ryder picks up the phone. 

She flings her car door open when she’s still five feet away. 

“Bring me Haihefa.”

* * *

Roan of the Azgeda is late, and Lexa is entirely unsurprised.

She lounges in her throne, drumming her fingers atop the armrest. She’s situated in an old abandoned facility on the west side for this. It’s cold and drafty, but it was the easiest solution at such short notice. At least the ceiling is mostly intact. The rain pours on beyond the few cracked windows that aren’t boarded up. 

Finally, they arrive; Lexa senses their approach before they come into view, can hear the rushing of blood as Roan is carried inside, head covered and arms bound. He is shoved to his knees while Lexa rises to her feet, clasping her arms behind her. She lifts her chin and Ryder bends down to brusquely yank the hooding off Roan’s face. She nods and Ryder and Tomac both bow their heads, backing away to take up guard just outside the building doors.

Roan looks rather worse for wear, his beard scruffy and face haggard, cheekbones gaunt with purple bruises painting the pale skin beneath his eyes. He flicks his head to push his long lank hair out of his eyes, unable to do so with his hands bound behind his back, and takes in Lexa standing before him. He immediately bows his head in deference when he realizes who stands before him.

“Heda,” he breathes, voice rough and strained as if from disuse.

She is so rarely known as Heda now. Not since Wanheda became known by the media and took Polis by storm. Many began referring to Lexa’s name by English tongue for the sake of avoiding mix-ups. Roan knows this. Lexa doesn’t indulge him. “Haihefa,” she speaks, voice clear and commanding. “I need to you to hunt someone down for me.”

Roan still does not look up. There’s a sound like gravel grating concrete as he attempts to clear his throat. “I already told you I cannot find Ontari when she carries my mother’s charm.”

“It’s not Ontari,” Lexa cuts across him. She takes a measured breath. “If you find this person for me, I will grant you your freedom. True freedom.”

Roan looks up, eyes darting between Lexa’s eyes as though he believes it to be a trick. Lexa stares back at him and finally Roan wets his lips, determination setting his brow. “Who is it?”

“I need you to track down Wanheda.”

Roan stares at her. “Wanheda.”

“Yes.”

“Wanheda as in the Commander of Death.”

“The very same.” Lexa draws a brow. “Can you do it? Your freedom is on the line.”

Resolve has Roan’s back straightening, his shoulders dropping. He nods grimly. “Yes, Heda. I’ll do it.”

Lexa’s gaze shifts up to meet Ryder’s. She dips her head and Ryder steps over again, bending down to run his dagger through the rope binding Roan’s wrists. Roan rubs the raw skin as he rises to his feet. He takes back his confiscated weapons when Lexa indicates for Tomac to hand them over. Slides his sword into his sheath and hitches his bag over his shoulder, glancing up at Lexa. Clears his throat again. “Is there anything else, Heda?”

“You have a week. If you can...I would have you bring her to me unharmed.” Lexa toys with her dagger again. “I have questions for her.”

Roan nods. “And if she doesn’t come easy?”

Lexa breathes out, a muscle in her jaw jumping as she clenches it. “That would be unfortunate, but she’s been a thorn in my side for too many years now. If she puts up a fight…” And of course she will put up a fight. Lexa knows this. Roan knows this. “Kill her.”

Roan bows again, low, so low the tips of his dirty hair brush the floor. 

* * *

After she’s cleaned up any trace of her presence and left to return home, Lexa can finally breathe. It’s been a long week since the mountain fell and she’s spent the majority of it visiting her various houses scattered through the Polis underground between hunting for traces of Wanheda and rogue Maunon. When she finally pulls into the hidden garage beneath Woodward Manor, it’s with the first relief she’s felt in days loosening the tension in her body. 

The moment she walks through the door, she hears it. A frantic pulse, blood rushing as something bounds toward her. A smile splits across her face, and she waves a hand to swing the door open from a distance, falling to her knees as a mass of golden fur leaps at her.

“Hey boy,” she coos, fingers gliding through soft fur as Fish wiggles his way into her lap, tail wagging madly. “Look at you. I missed you too, bub. You’re such a good boy, yes you are.” He pants happily, rolling over for belly rubs, and she narrows her eyes, smiling as she rubs at his round stomach. “I think the kitchen staff has been keeping you a little too well-fed, haven’t they? You’re like a whale now.”

He licks at her hand. She snorts.

“Ms Woodward, is that you?”

Lexa looks up, pleasantly surprised to see the man who just walked into her living room. “Gustus! What are you doing here?”

He’s a hulking figure that towers in her doorway, nearly seven feet tall and comprised of solid muscle. He’s also wearing a flowery apron and a smile that has his eyes crinkled and glinting like black beetles. He pats his hands off on the apron as he comes further into the room; Lexa stands up and the two of them embrace, Gustus sweeping her up in a tight bear hug. 

“I came by to drop off some pies when Denae mentioned Titus said you would be returning today. I thought I’d make you some dinner.”

“Oh.”

Gustus smiles wryly when Lexa’s face drops. “Unless you already have plans?”

“The girlfriend,” Lexa says ruefully. “I can cancel them, though, I’m sure—”

Gustus immediately lifts a hand, shaking his great head. “Nonsense. Tell you what. Is she looking like a keeper?”

Lexa hesitates. “So far. She seems like a good one.”

“Okay then. Bring her to the restaurant at some point. I will make your favorite."

Lexa smiles, nods. “Deal.”

“When are you meeting her?”

A glance at her watch tells her she’s still on time, but she’d better get ready now. “Soon. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to talk.”

“No problem. I need to finish cooking anyway, we’ll catch up later.” He hugs her again before leaving, but Lexa has hardly taken steps toward the other doorway leading to the hall when he pops his tattooed head back in. “I heard Roan is on the loose again, by the way. Is he supposed to be or do you want me to kill him?”

Lexa snorts, pausing to pat Fish’s head again as he bumps up against her legs. “I let him go, he’s running a job for me. I appreciate the offer, though.”

Gustus nods, tosses an airy “Any time,” over his shoulder before disappearing back into the kitchens. 

Lexa tuts her tongue and pulls a new bone out of the box tucked away in the cabinet, tossing it to the couch to occupy Fish before she heads into the bathroom.

She likes to take her time in the shower. Something about the water pounding down on her skin, beating away the bloodstains that always seem to linger, sticky and cloying, even if logically she knows there’s not a trace left. She takes her time getting out, too, wringing her hair and braiding it into a thick rope that hangs over one shoulder as she hovers naked in the steam. Sometimes she sits on the bench propped against the wall adjacent to the mirror and closes her eyes and just breathes. Sometimes she meditates for so long she catches the whispers, and she swears when she opens her eyes for just a brief second, glimpses flicker through the fogged up mirror, waxy and distorted. Just beyond her fingertips, as she presses them to the glass and watches her breath curl into mist.

She’s still early, by the time she reaches the restaurant. She sits in her car for a minute, breathing, getting in the right mindset. She can find it with a blink, but it’s still like putting on another suit. It’s tiring, and she doesn’t look forward to it, but she steps out of the car anyway. She tucks her hands into the soft threadbare sleeves of her oversized jumper and melts into herself a moment before opening the heavy door of the cozy little cafe she’s been frequenting so often the past month the kitchen staff knows her by name. She nods to them now when they call out greetings to her and makes her way to a small booth where she can have the entire restaurant in view; back to the wall, window at her right, the spread of the cafe before her.

She’s sipping on a mug of coffee when she spots a blonde passing the window. The door chimes as it swings open, and in walks the woman Lexa’s been seeing for the past month. Lexa raises a hand to attract her attention, but she doesn’t need to. Clarke spots her immediately and smiles, offering half a wave before crossing the diner to join her.

“Good morning.” Lexa stands, bends over the table to brush a chaste kiss to Clarke’s cheek.

“Hi,” returns Clarke warmly, draping her coat on the back of her chair before taking her place across from Lexa.

That’s one of the best ways to describe Clarke. She’s so _warm_. You can see it in her eyes, in the rosy tint of her cheeks, in the curves of her body and the cadence of her husky voice. As far as girlfriends go, Lexa has chosen the perfect one. Sweet, witty, beautiful. Works a job as prone to periods of absence as Lexa’s, so she’s too busy to question why Lexa’s ‘out of town’ so often. 

They idly chat about their week apart, discussing everything from the weather to the new art installation put up outside the grocery store. They’re halfway through their food when the television in the corner of the diner distracts them, and they look to see what every other patron is staring at. The news is still reporting on the fall of Mount Weather. Lexa turns her fork in her hand, watching as David Miller, the Chief of Polis Police, gives a distracted interview outside the rubble where his fellow officers are directing their dogs. It’s been over a week since Hakeldama and they’re still searching for any possible survivors. A group of half a dozen Reapers were found only two days ago, madder than usual and feasting on the parts they could tear off the crushed corpses around them.

“It’s terrible,” Clarke says in a low voice, brow furrowed as her gaze remains transfixed on the screen. “I mean, it’s lucky that it destroyed so much Red and the police were finally able to figure out where it was coming from, but it's so sad. The death count is at like two hundred right now, and there’s still people missing…oh, look, it’s the Chancellor!” Clarke says suddenly, lighting up as she points at the screen. 

She’s not the only one; everyone in the entire diner is buzzing with elation and a glowing pride as they appraise their hero on screen in all his spandex-ed glory. Lexa has an image to uphold, so she smiles too, sitting up straighter in her seat and feigning rapt attention. This is only a replay, the same news clip that’s been on repeat for the past three days since this idiot deigned to an interview outside the capitol building, where Mayor Diana Sydney stands with a simpering smile in the background.

“ — and I have a message for Wanheda. For the Commander. For Natrona and Skairipa and every other cowardly villain out there. I’m coming for you. Resist and you will be met by force. Fight and you will be greeted by death. Today is a new beginning. Mark it down, remember it, just as the Maunon will remember it."

Of course he makes it sound as though _he_ were the one to take down the mountain.

“What do you think of him?” Clarke asks a moment later, once an advert is on and the rest of the diner is talking amongst themselves. “Honestly.”

“Honestly?” Lexa pauses. “I think he’s a bit long-winded.”

Clarke hums in acknowledgment, quiet as she stirs milk into her tea. Lexa vaguely wonders if she’s offended her; the vast majority of the city worships the Chancellor and Clarke could very well be among his legion of admirers. Clarke is silent long enough Lexa assumes that’s it on the matter, and she doesn’t care enough to ask Clarke her opinion, even if it is the polite thing to do—she’s running on very little sleep after a frustrating night of fruitless torturing, and the three cups of coffee she’s downed have done little to help. But several seconds later, after Clarke sets down the spoon and brings her mug to her lips, sharp blue eyes find Lexa’s over the chipped ceramic rim. “But he’s a hero.” 

Lexa swallows the last dregs of her coffee, black and bitter on her tongue. She hides the irritation those words bring behind the pleasant smile aimed at Clarke. She’s heard them so many times over the years. Clarke looks at her curiously when a pregnant pause stretches between them. “Do you not agree? He took out so many Reapers all on his own, and he keeps the streets safer. You have to admit that’s impressive.”

There’s only partial truth to that. But it doesn’t matter. Lexa shrugs, amusement growing when Clarke rolls her eyes— it seems affectionate, at least. 

“He does great things for the city,” Lexa pretends to contend. “I just think he could do fewer interviews, too.”

“He does seem to like being on camera,” Clarke muses.

Lexa just nods. They don’t typically discuss politics. Lexa hates conversations that always inevitably drift toward powers and hero versus villain discourse, and she assumed Clarke just had little interest in them. 

“His sidekick annoys me though,” Clarke adds, smiling slightly when Lexa does. “Every interview he’s just lurking in the background making himself look taller. And his name is ridiculous. Who calls themselves ‘Rebel King?’ I could make a really good _he’s reaching_ joke.”

Lexa laughs. A real, genuine laugh. Sometimes it feels like she doesn’t even have to pretend. She tries not to ruminate too long on that as she and Clarke finish up their meal, and has long pushed it out of her mind by the time Clarke has launched into a summary of her latest work assignment.

“ — and being out of town during a storm was finally a stroke of luck, but my camera nearly died only a couple hours into the shoot, I guess I forgot to charge it. I think that…” Clarke trails off, one side of her mouth tipping up in a crooked, self-conscious smile when she realizes how closely Lexa is watching her, face propped in one hand. “What?”

There’s a strong possibility it’s too soon for this level of honesty. They’ve only known each other for a handful of months, and this is only their fourth date. But from the moment Clarke walked into her office, something about her had drawn Lexa’s eye. Perhaps it was her beauty, yes. Clarke Griffin is a striking woman, there’s no denying that. But there is an endless amount of striking women out there. Perhaps it was something more. The way she carried herself, an intrepid confidence that belied the fidgeting hands working the camera hanging from her neck. The endearing quickening of her heart before she addressed Lexa’s team. The stubborn, fierce arguments she presented Lexa when she disagreed with her ideas, entirely insouciant to Lexa’s power and status— or perhaps in spite of it. 

That last point had been a source of headaches, too. But she had grown on her (and the magazine spread truly did look fantastic).

“You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,” Lexa says truthfully.

Clarke’s smile grows; she tries to temper it, pearly white teeth sinking into a plump pink lip. “I’m assuming you own a mirror?”

“I do. It doesn’t show me anything nearly as interesting as you.”

Clarke watches her now just as closely, a twinkle in her blue eyes as she reaches for Lexa, gently grasps her hand and pulls it to the centre of the table to tangle their fingers together. “This is our fifth date now, you know,” Clarke tells her conspiratorially, brushing her thumb over Lexa’s knuckles. “It’s been a little over a month since you asked me out.” 

“I know.” Lexa smiles, swiping her own thumb over the soft skin of Clarke’s wrist. “I’m starting to think it was a great decision.”

“Oh, you’re _starting_ to.” Clarke’s laugh is warm and charming. “Well. I suppose I have to agree.”

Clarke looks at her like she’s considering her, and there’s the curiosity Lexa has found so compelling since the moment they met. That glint in her eyes, the way they narrow and calculate. There are depths to this girl. Something there that draws Lexa in. Perhaps it was the way they clashed when they first met, and Clarke was just bullheaded enough Lexa was tempted to kill her and make it look like an accident. But it softened, and now here they are. Clarke holds her hand so softly it’s almost enough for Lexa to forget the blood staining her skin, caking the lines on her palm, forever embedded beneath her nails. It’s almost enough.

“Do you want to go have a drink with me?”

Lexa tilts her head, considering Clarke with the same curious contemplation, absently brushing her thumb over the back of Clarke’s knuckles. They’ve never had two dates on the same day; they’ve never even had them in the same week, too busy with work for their schedules to align. Truthfully, Lexa has appreciated the slow crawl of their relationship. She may have agreed with this convoluted plan of solidifying a relationship so the public image assumes she’s settling down, and she can acknowledge she feels a certain degree of attraction for Clarke, which is really just an added bonus, but that doesn’t mean she actually wants any of this.

“I’d love to.” She smiles softly at Clarke, resisting the urge to check the time. “Where would you like to go?”

“I was thinking you could come to my place.” Lexa’s mouth goes dry. She thinks she hides it well, but there’s some sort of knowing twinkle in Clarke’s eyes, even if her smile is tempered and small. 

“Okay,” Lexa says in a measured tone, ignoring the way it only seems to strengthen that twinkle. “Sounds good.”

“Good.” Clarke takes another drink, hiding her smile behind her cup, and Lexa tries to ignore how warm it makes her feel.

And though she shouldn’t, she can’t help but think about what it would feel like to experience this under different circumstances. In a different time, a different world, if Lexa were a different person. In another world, it would be so effortless to fall for Clarke. It will be difficult, Lexa thinks amidst all the low warning bells in her head, to resist actually falling for her even now.

But really. How much can you love a person you keep at such an arm’s length?

* * *

The street lamps are flickering when they pull up to Clarke’s place. The block of flats is located in a modest area of town, closer to the poorer area of Polis than the rich uptown where Lexa’s civilian home is nestled, but it’s not bad. Reasonably clean and smells far better than the slums of Tondc where Lexa spent a few years of her childhood, anyway.

They climb out of the vehicle with an energy buzzing in the air, thrumming fast in Lexa’s chest. She’s not sure if she’s curious about it or wants to scoff at herself for it. It’s been a long time since she’s felt this fluttering of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. Not for the first time, she wonders whether or not it’s a good thing that she’s feeling it for Clarke. Whether it’s convenient or decidedly inconvenient. Clarke is essentially supposed to be her civilian beard. Nothing more and nothing less. By all extents and purposes, perhaps Lexa should be leaving now. Should never have followed Clarke here. Should not have asked her out to begin with.

But she doesn’t pull away when Clarke takes her hand and holds it their entire walk up the stairs to Clarke’s door. 214 is printed across it in peeling paint. Clarke unlocks it and sweeps Lexa inside, offering her a glass of wine and a brief tour. It’s a nice enough place. A small one-bedroom flat, tidy and sparsely decorated save for the paintings hung up all over the walls. Lexa pauses by the ones near the window. 

“Do you paint?”

“I used to,” Clarke says, staring up at the wall. For the first time all night, she doesn’t have much of an expression. Just blankly sips at her wine before continuing, “Haven’t for years now, though.”

“Why not?”

Clarke shrugs, golden hair tumbling over one shoulder with the movement. She turns to face Lexa and Lexa realizes they’re standing much closer than she realized. Blue eyes study her as Clarke idly swirls her drink around in her glass. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

Spare time. Lexa could snort at the idea.

“I like to read,” she answers vaguely. 

Clarke’s lips quirk. “Me too. What’re you into?”

They speak about books and art, authors and artists, the art scene in Polis and how Clarke came into photography and the art programs Lexa’s company has funded in the past. All the while Clarke is studying her so intently and it isn’t until Lexa catches a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror hanging over the dining room table that they gravitate toward when Clarke goes to pour herself another glass of wine that Lexa realizes she’s been looking back at Clarke with just as much focus. Then she catches the distorted shape, though she knows no one is standing behind her, and she hears a distant whisper, though she knows she and Clarke are alone here. 

She’s not sure what she wants more at this point. She knows why she’s here, and she wants that— she burns for that. But there’s this squirming at the bottom of her spine that urges her to run, too. To leave. It would be easier that way.

“Thank you,” Lexa says later, politely turning on the door stoop to face Clarke, who lingers in the doorway. “I had a lovely time.”

“So did I.” Clarke’s lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes. Eyes that are darker than usual, distracted and half-lidded as they make a lazy pass up the length of Lexa’s body. “Are you going to kiss me goodnight?”

“I would like to.” She wanted to. She would have already done it, but that’s not part of this role she’s playing. She gives Clarke a demure smile. “I didn’t want to assume.”

Clarke smiles and reaches up, taps her lips, and Lexa leans in to press hers against them. She could tell herself she intended for it to be chaste, but it would be a lie. They both knew where this was going the moment Clarke invited her in for drinks.

This is not their first kiss. The first kiss happened after their third date, where they stood on the street beneath a lonely streetlamp awaiting a taxi and Lexa just did it. Without thinking. Very unusual for her.

This is not their first kiss, but it hits with the same wave, that little _oh_ that gets suffocated and stamped out in the middle of Lexa’s chest. She resolutely ignores it. She has neither the time nor the patience for any more _oh_ s in her life. Except right now it is difficult to ignore. When Clarke’s lips are parting under hers, her tongue sliding into her mouth slick and hot, one arm hooking around Lexa's waist to tug her back through the doorway, Lexa's heel snapping the door closed behind her; Clarke's other hand pushing Lexa’s coat back from her shoulder and slipping inside the lapel of Lexa’s blazer. Lexa braces herself with a hand on the the wall beside Clarke’s head, kissing her harder. Clarke’s breasts push into her chest as she sucks in a ragged breath and Lexa feels the drop hit her stomach hard, her mouth dry as Clarke bites at her lower lip, suckles to soothe the sting. Their foreheads tip together and Lexa breathes, dizzy with the scent of Clarke’s perfume.

Her whisper curls between them. “Can I touch you?” 

Clarke’s response is a shaky exhalation that pushes more heat into Lexa’s stomach. She nods a beat later, forehead tipping against Lexa’s. 

Lexa still waits just a moment before she moves. Just a single heartbeat, half a breath, before she dips down and presses her lips to Clarke’s again.

There’s always a certain amount of care that goes into engaging in intimacy with a human. She can’t ever get swept up in it, in the softness and warmth, the smell and taste and euphoria of kissing a woman. She has to remember to contain herself; to pull herself out of the pulse and rush of blood in the body pressed against hers; to remind herself to draw more air into her lungs and keep her touch gentle and slow. It’s difficult to do when you’re lost in intimacy. That’s why it’s safer, easier, to maintain a distance.

Clarke makes it difficult. 

Her lips are soft and full beneath Lexa’s, and they move against hers with just the slightest tremble of hesitancy, like this is something she doesn’t want to fall into either. But Lexa kisses her, and Clarke kisses back.

Lexa thinks it’s just the right amount of pressure. Not desperate or hurried. Not soft and yearning. It’s slow, and firm, and Lexa wonders if she’s the only one who can feel the restraint vibrating just below the surface. The reticence burning in the fingertips she skims along the curve of Clarke’s neck, the prudence with which she traces the delicate ridge of her collarbone. She presses in just a bit harder, enough to leave white intentions in pale skin, enough to have them pushing further into the entryway until Clarke’s back is pressed into the wall. Clarke’s tongue flicks over the roof of her mouth, and from there everything seems to melt into something hotter, deeper. Wetter.

Clarke’s chest arches into her as Lexa cups one full breast in her hand, and her stomach drops at the high gasp spilled into the seam of her lips when she brushes her thumb over a nipple stiff through the fine fabric of Clarke’s blouse. Lexa pits her thigh forward, lips dropping to Clarke’s neck. She tastes a frantic pulse, feels it lower when Clarke presses against her leg, body undulating in such a way Lexa can feel the tremble of it dragging her limbs, flushing her body with insistent desire. It has her shuddering, grip on Clarke flexing and tightening.

“Too much?” she asks when Clarke gasps at the grip on her hip; Lexa hadn’t even realized her hands slipped down there.

“Not enough,” Clarke breathes, grasping Lexa’s hand and putting it back on her waist, squeezing pointedly. 

Lexa takes the hint. Holds her tightly and loses herself in deep, consuming kisses until her head is spinning even more than it already was.

This probably shouldn’t be how it should happen. 

Clarke was supposed to have romance, Lexa was supposed to woo her. Rose petals on the bed, candles lit, everything gentle and tinged with the shy modesty of...well, someone else. Alexandria Woodward, the darling of Polis.

Instead Lexa has Clarke pressed up against the wall in the dark entryway of her flat, their coats shoved to the floor and Lexa’s hand slipping beneath the waistband of Clarke’s trousers. Her fingertips glide into wet heat and both of their affected exhalations suffuse the air between them and make Lexa feel even more light-headed than she already did. Clarke feels amazing. Her body against Lexa’s, golden hair tickling the tip of Lexa’s nose as she kisses her softly, until Clarke’s lips part and break away, the beginning echoes of something— a whimper, a moan, a gasp— escaping them as Lexa slides a finger down her slit, parts soft folds and ghosts over a stiffening clit. 

“Fuck,” whispers Clarke, hips canting into Lexa’s hand. It has Lexa licking her lips, crowding in further as she explores Clarke, seeking a repeat. She gets it a moment later, when she’s tentatively pushing a finger inside her, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes to ensure consent.

Clarke has a hand on Lexa’s shoulder to brace herself, and it grasps at fabric, wrinkling Lexa’s jacket. Lexa doesn’t care. Honestly, she wishes Clarke would. Something, anything to break up this stale stream-lined version of Lexa, safe and proper and appropriate for public consumption. Sometimes she just wants to rip it all off. The clothes she likes are at home. Black leather, mostly, her favorites being her wrist gauntlets and a decade-old leather jacket. Perhaps more buckles and straps than necessary, but she feels powerful in her Commander garb, red cape flowing over one shoulder. 

Well. Perhaps Lexa is one for aesthetics too. 

“Oh, God,” Clarke gasps, head tipping back. 

Despite the way Lexa’s heart pounds and body burns with desire, she manages to get a handle on the urgency she’s tempted to fall into. The air is thick with tension, everything sticky and slow, as Lexa fucks her with restraint. Steady. Methodical. She doesn’t go too far. This is already too far as it is, she wasn’t supposed to fuck Clarke like this, but it’s happening and there’s no use regretting it. Lexa certainly doesn’t right now, knuckle deep in what she can freely admit is one of the most beautiful, compelling women she’s ever met. This would have happened sooner or later anyway.

Lexa can feel Clarke’s orgasm approaching as easily as if it were her own. The ripples shaking Clarke’s body in tiny tremors; the way her inner muscles flutter around her fingers. Lexa licks up the column of her throat just to taste the moans crawling out, scraps her teeth along overheated skin and struggles to reign herself in. To be gentle. To hold back.

Clarke spills into her hand with the sweetest sigh that echoes around the flat. Lexa doesn’t know how it happens, but she finds herself nose to nose with Clarke, their foreheads resting together, breath mixing. They remain there, in the dark hallway, Lexa pushing Clarke up against the wall, hand buried inside her, until Clarke, finally catching her breath, hums in appreciation, nose brushing Lexa’s as she angles her head for a soft, lingering kiss. Lexa’s breath catches when Clarke drops her left hand, seeking out Lexa’s waistband, but before she can do much more than graze along her skin, there’s a knock on the door just beside them. 

They still, Lexa drawing back to blink at Clarke, who’s frowning and shaking her head as though trying to emerge from the fog of lust they’ve both been trapped in here.

Another knock, followed by a voice. 

“Clarke, I know you’re in there.” Clarke balks. “I see the lights on. Open up!”

Clarke gives a shaky exhale, closing her eyes as she tips her head back against the wall. “Shit. Raven.” 

Lexa pulls out her hand, wiping her wet fingers on the inside of her jeans while Clarke adjusts her clothing. They’re both decent by the time Clarke pulls open the door to reveal a woman standing there with drawn brows and a frown. She has dark hair pulled back into a tail, and wears a well-worn red bomber jacket. 

“Hey.” The girl’s narrowed gaze flits between a flushed Clarke and a stiff, expressionless Lexa who has very obviously mussed hair. Lexa ignores the sinking sensation in her gut at the suspicion that this woman might be connected with Clarke in an intimate way. 

Clarke finally finds her voice. “Um, what are you— why are you here?”

“I need to talk to you,” Raven says, dark eyes filled with what appears to be resentment as she looks back at Clarke, and now Lexa is almost certain there’s something distinctly non-platonic here. Something to have put that bitterness in Raven’s gaze and tone. 

“Okay. We can do lunch tomorrow—” 

“Now,” Raven cuts across her, leveling a look at Clarke that gives little room for argument. “It can’t wait.”

Which, naturally, has Lexa leveling a look cold enough to freeze at Raven; Raven notices and something else flickers across her face that has her scowling. Lexa keeps her eyes on Raven but tilts her head toward Clarke. “Clarke?”

Clarke sighs. “No, it’s— it’s okay, Lexa.” Clarke opens the door wider, jerks her head to indicate to Raven to step inside. “Come in. Let me just tell Lexa goodbye and I’ll be right back.”

Raven shoots her a glare as she climbs up the extra step; she has a bad limp, Lexa notices, but she doesn’t budge as Raven shoulders past her. Clarke ushers Lexa forward to the stoop and closes the door behind them. 

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes at once, and she sounds as contrite as she looks. 

“Angry ex?” Lexa guesses, arching a brow. She doesn’t know why she’s even guessing— she doesn’t care. Not really. 

Clarke shakes her head. “More like a...sister, sort of. Raven is a— she was a friend from high school and sort of became a part of the family. It’s...complicated.”

Lexa nods. Not her business anyway. 

The smile finally returns to Clarke’s face. It’s tinged with something like regret softening the corners now. “Raincheck?” Blue eyes visibly darken as she stares at Lexa. “I owe you.”

She should tell her she doesn’t owe her anything. But instead Lexa finds herself smirking, slightly, enjoying the way Clarke’s eyes narrow. She knows she’s competitive from the time they worked together. “You don’t owe me anything.” Lexa can’t help her smirk, and Clarke shares her head, slowly licking her lips. 

“Don’t look so smug,” she says, her playful tone belied by the dark gaze she casts over Lexa, enough to have her suppressing a shiver. “Believe me, I owe you, and I plan on doing something about it.” If the words didn’t spit fire into Lexa’s already inflamed veins, the way Clarke looks at her as she reaches down, trails her fingertips along Lexa’s arm, certainly does. “I have a busy week with work but how about dinner on Friday?”

“Do you want to come to my place this time?” The words are out before Lexa has really considered them, and once they are, she does nothing to betray the slight surprise fluttering in her stomach. Maintains a guileless smile and ignores the turbulence inside, especially when she’s rewarded with a breathtaking smile overtaking Clarke’s face as she nods in answer.

It’s a good thing to be attracted to the woman she’s dating. Two birds. One stone. 

“Sounds great,” Clarke says, sounding pleased. Lexa suppresses a shiver at the way Clarke’s nails lightly skim the back of her knuckles. “Just send me your address and the time and I’ll be there.”

Lexa’s not as successful keeping the kiss goodbye chaste, but she eventually parts from her. Shoots her a warm smile as she backs away toward the taxi that’s pulled up to the curb. Clarke waves, watching her climb into the vehicle before turning to enter her flat, closing the door behind her, and it’s only then that Lexa relaxes, deflating against the back of the seat, muttering quick instructions to the driver before turning to stare out the window. She’s uncomfortably wet and will have to take care of that at home. 

First she needs to check if Roan has contacted her. She doubts he’s made much progress on Wanheda given that it’s only been a matter of hours since she spoke to him, but she likes to stay on top of things. Titus is meant to arrive later tonight, he’ll be pleased when she informs him she initiated the plan to track down Wanheda, but less so to learn she hired Roan. She understands the disdain, considering who he is. But she can admit how necessary he is in this situation. He knows everyone. There’s only one person better to find the elusive Wanheda, but Echo had learned to stay upwind of Lexa a long time ago.

Now there is nothing left to do but wait. Lexa can do that. 

She's good at biding her time.

* * *

The most elusive Other in Polis is utterly unremarkable.

That’s Clarke’s first impression of her, anyway. The woman is tall, hair loose save for two braids down the side, and it’s difficult to see in the darkness whether it’s brown or blonde. It’s also difficult to gather her body type when she’s garbed in all black, slouching against the far wall of the dilapidated building, half shrouded in shadow. Clarke would wager athletic and strong; she’d have to be to keep on her toes the way she does.

It took a great amount of work to arrange this tonight. Especially considering the hours she had to spend arguing with Raven first.

“Wanheda.”

Clarke stills, watching the woman warily. She’s invisible, but she supposes she’s not that surprised that Echo can sense her. The power of detection is part of the package, after all.

“Echo.” Clarke’s quiet voice is a mere rasp through her mask. 

“It was reckless, summoning me like you did."

“Yet it brought you here.”

“Because I am curious.”

“That makes two of us.”

Though Echo shouldn’t be able to see her, she’s staring exactly where Clarke should be. The two women size one another up for a long moment. 

Clarke doesn't look away as she reaches down to rummage within the bag she brought. The stack of money doesn’t become visible until she’s tossed it. It hits the concrete with a slap of dust. “You’ll get the second half after the job is done.”

Echo pushes herself off the wall, takes a few steps forward until she’s less than a foot away from Clarke, who pushes her shield out just a little bit more. Echo only picks up the stack, thumbs through it with half a glance before tucking it away into her pocket. She considers her words, or perhaps considers Clarke as a whole. “I can't do it without having something of hers."

Clarke knows that too. She did her research before sending out the feelers. It took four cocktails and three shots before the barman at Grounders, the most popular speakeasy for Others in Polis, would even consider running his mouth to her.

“This is the best I could find.” She tosses Echo the scrap of fabric next. Red, ripped to a mere shred. There’s a pregnant pause as Echo catches it from midair and just frowns as she scrutinizes it, running her fingers over the loose threads. “Will that do?” prompts Clarke when the silence stretches.

Echo nods, tucking the fabric into her palm. "It will be enough to find her, at least."

"I want status reports."

Echo’s only response is the slightest curve of her lips, a cool sardonic smile that Clarke suspects is the first true threat of the night. “I can find you.”

Clarke puts out her own threat. Pushes at her shield, hard enough she knows Echo can feel the pulse of energy in the air by the way the amusement promptly slides from her face. She dips her head in acknowledgment. "We can meet here," Clarke says sharply, "In one week's time."

At Echo's nod, she turns to leave, heading for the window she climbed in through. The moment her foot hits the sill, Echo calls out. 

“It won’t be easy. It’ll be next to impossible if you want her alive.”

“I don’t.” Clarke slips out the window, leaving Echo standing alone, fingers idly running over the scrap of fabric again.

The sooner the Commander is dead and out of Clarke's hair, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter: some minor violence, some brief vanilla smut.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa steps as close to Clarke as she can now, noting the way the shield recedes to let her but still blocks her from coming too near. “I have to touch you to do this, Clarke. You’re going to have to lower your shield.”
> 
> “Mm, I’m sure you can get creative.” Clarke’s voice is a low rasp that Lexa can feel the reverberations of deep inside, lingering somewhere between her legs. 
> 
> “I’m not sure you could handle me getting creative with you.”
> 
> The ghost of a smirk is overshadowed by the dark hunger on Clarke’s face as she looks at Lexa with hooded eyes. “Try me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will put the tags/warnings for this chapter at the bottom, since they are somewhat spoilery.

Fearless. 

It’s the first word that strikes a chord in Clarke Griffin’s soul. Resonates deep within her, fills her with wonder and longing that gives a new vibrancy to the vivid blue of the fluttering cape reflected in her bright eyes. She’s six years old the first time she sees her father for what he is— for _who_ he is. 

Arkadia.

A hero. A good man. Her father.

It’s just days after her birthday that she sees him. More specifically, she catches him, stumbling through the open window, a great hulking figure that has her scream catching in her throat and her mother stumbling down the stairs in a panic. It takes a moment to connect the dots. When her mother slaps the lights on, the first thing Clarke sees is her dad’s face screwed up in pain, his normally carefully styled hair flopping down and plastered to his sweaty forehead, and most ominously, the blood caked over his skin. There are terrible gashes stretching across the left side of his face, angry streaks over his cheekbones and bruises lighting up the parts of him not painted red. The majority of the blood seems to stem from the arm he clutches limp at his side.

The second thing she sees, as her mother ushers her father toward the nearest chair, is the foot of space between her father’s feet and the carpet. Her father is _floating_. She’s so stricken by that, it takes her a moment to realize what he’s wearing: a familiar blue suit with a golden cape, a large blood-splattered _A_ on his chest. Clarke swivels wide eyes to the television, where the news report she’d been watching only moments ago still plays. A shaky video captured by a passerby shows Arkadia swooping through the sky, bursts of light emanating from his palms as he fights a huge metal monster. The monster swipes at him like he’s nothing more than an irksome fly, and the hit has Arkadia tumbling away in the air, endless rolls that make Clarke dizzy just to watch. Arkadia hurls stars at the man, small, blinding balls of light he forms in his hands and chucks like baseballs, and it’s only a streak of luck that has him landing one dead in the centre of the monster’s heart. He recklessly bullets forward, exploding through the hole he’d created, and civilians cheer as the monster groans, lights flickering off as it begins to slowly fall— and Arkadia flies away, visibly injured but doggedly launching forward as though chasing something out of view of the cameras.

And now here he is. Here her father is. Clarke gapes at the man slumped over on the recliner. He looks like her father, but at the same time he doesn’t. Clarke’s father is clean and goofy. He wears lopsided glasses and has a quiet voice and slouches a little all the time, and his hair always looks like it needs brushed. But apparently this is her father too. Arkadia. And he’s hurt.

Clarke pulls herself out of her shock and tentatively broachs a few steps forward, shoulders scrunched and hands clasped to her chest, her tummy twisting with fear as she tunes into the way her mother frets over her father, the way her father groans as Abby presses her hands to the bleeding wound.

“ — why you would even go after him on your own,” Abby mutters, pulling a box full of medical supplies out from beneath the couch, “when you know how dangerous he is. Hold still, baby, don’t move. This is going to hurt.”

Clarke flinches, heart dropping as her father shouts in pain as her mother does something to him. Bloody tissues fall to the floor. 

“This is bad,” Abby breathes, distractedly wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm, so focused she doesn’t even notice Clarke is coming up beside her. Abby’s voice is thick, her mouth set in a thin terse line that wobbles slightly, but her hands are steady as she begins stitching her husband up. “This could have killed you, Jacob. What were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t let him get away,” Jake groans, face screwed up with the pain, sweating and grimacing as Abby runs a needle through his flesh. 

“Daddy, are you going to die?” Clarke bursts, voice high and shaky. 

Abby and Jake both startle, immediately turning to Clarke, eyes wide with shock, and offer protests and consolation at the same time. 

“No, baby, no,” Jake says, cupping the side of Clarke’s head and cringing when he stains her hair with the blood on his hand. “Your mum has me all fixed up now. I’m going to be just fine.”

“You’re a Other. A superhero,” Clarke sniffles, her tearful eyes wide as her gaze shifts down to the blood-splattered A bright and bold on her father’s chest. “Arkadia!”

Jake smiles, a tired smile but a smile nonetheless. “Yes, honey, I am.”

“Clarke, you can’t tell anyone about this,” Abby says urgently, gripping Clarke’s arm and looking intently into her eyes. “Not a soul. Do you understand? We have to keep this a secret if we want to stay safe, okay?”

An hour ago Clarke would have argued with that. She wanted to tell her best friend Wells. She wanted everyone at school to know that _her_ daddy was Arkadia, the hero of Polis, the most amazing person in the whole wide world. The idea of having to stay safe when your father is the most powerful man in the world was laughable, an hour ago. But now Clarke looks at all the blood and bruises all over her father, at the redness of her mother’s hands, and she understands. Her brows draw together, jaw setting as she frowns down at the stitched up wound tearing across her father’s arm and shoulder. 

“You got hurt,” she says quietly. 

“A bad guy hurt me,” Jake acknowledges, voice dropping just as quiet. “But I beat him, and he’s going to be in jail for a very long time now.”

Jail? Someone tried to kill her father. Clarke isn’t a dumb little kid, she knows that, she can tell. Someone tried to kill her daddy and now is just sitting in jail? The anger grows, so much worse than the normal kind, such as when Murphy pulled on her pigtails at school, or Trina took her favourite crayon. The anger grows until Clarke feels it boiling in her veins, until she shakes with it all over, and she doesn’t realize the room is growing brighter until her parents’ eyes are blowing wide. 

“She has powers!” crows Jake, but the elation leaves him a moment later, a shadow of concern flickering over him instead. “Clarke, honey, calm down, it’s okay.”

“Why is it different than yours,” Abby gasps. “She’s glowing all over, Jake!”

“It’s okay. It just manifests itself in different ways, that’s all.” Jake smiles again, though his brow is still knit as he looks at Clarke, putting a hand on her shoulder and then hissing, drawing his hand back when it meets the golden light emanating from Clarke’s skin. “Clarke, honey, breathe. You have to reign it in.”

Clarke nods, her scowl faltering as the light does, flashing in the room. She can feel the energy thrumming in the air and it feels good. She’s too distracted with it to spare much thought on what all this means— that she’s an Other. Just like her father. Arkadia.

Then she notices the way they look at her. She catches a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror hooked to the cabinet propped against the wall, and Clarke’s heart thuds in her chest. Her father’s powers were like glowing balls of light in his hands, and this is what it looks like except it’s all over, pushing out like a big bubble around her. Her eyes glow brighter, an electric blue. And, most jarring of all, it almost looks as though you can _see_ through her _skin—_ her face looks like a creepy skull, and Clarke feels like she should be more frightened of it. Her mother certainly looks it.

Jake and Abby are both silent, but while Jake looks fascinated, Abby looks as though she just received the worst news of her life. Clarke’s mother looks at her like she’s _scared._

This is the day Clarke learns what fear is, too.

* * *

Over twenty years later, Clarke has learned that lesson again and again, too many times to count. Has experienced what it’s like to look into the eyes of someone terrified of you. Has tasted the fear hanging heavy in the air, the way it spikes and turns almost tangible especially in the seconds before striking the killing blow. 

Clarke has always relished the taste.

It’s something she used to wrestle with. But for years now, since Finn— 

There’s no use dredging up the past. It’s a waste of time. But the truth still stands. Since then, it’s been far easier to accept that part of herself. After all, she’s seen up close and personal what it looks like when people are in denial of who they are at the core. She’s seen it again and again. It’s never pretty.

Not pretty like this is, anyway. Clarke tilts her head, humming in appreciation as she appraises the flow of crimson seeping over the grainy rivets of the pavement, watching it mix with the stagnant puddle near the curb. It’s gorgeous. She lifts a leg and presses her foot into the arm nearest the puddle, pushing down to squeeze more out. The puddle is almost entirely stained now.

So this was another dead end. Disappointing. And possibly her last chance. She pushes the frustration to the back of her mind. She’ll have time for that later. 

It’s been a busy couple of weeks. An exact six days since Echo failed to show for their meeting. At first Clarke wondered if perhaps she’d been killed by the Commander. It was a likely possibility, and she knew that when she hired her. It’s not like she actually expected Echo to be successful, though there was always a little hope, considering Echo had managed to make it so many years avoiding the Commander’s wrath anyway. But she’d at least hoped the Commander would be sufficiently distracted, enough for Clarke to philter through the ruins of Tondc unimpeded. 

It didn’t work. 

Instead the Commander had made another move. Sent a batallion of her people into _Clarke’s_ territory, _again_. The mere thought of it has rage pulsing just beneath Clakre’s skin, has her gritting her teeth and stomping hard on the arm just to feel the satisfying crunch of bone before kicking the body aside and marching back into the alleyway that’s littered with the bodies of Trikru gona, some Others and some humans. She’s lost count of how many she’s been forced to kill in the past days. 

The Commander was coming at her with a vengeance now. The attempt at distracting her had backfired. Now Clarke may actually need to hunt the woman down to actually kill her, if only to get her out of her hair. Never trust anyone else to do a job you could do yourself. Clarke supposes she knew better.

“W— Wanheda!” 

Clarke stops in her tracks, her cloak whipping around her ankles. She turns her head to face the man standing across the street with a gun trained on her. Every inch of him is shaking from head to toe, and even from here Clarke can see the perspiration on his skin, can taste the terror leaking into the air. 

Idiotic man. Anyone with a brain would have left. 

He shoots. It’s a terrible shot, landing near Clarke’s knees; it hits her shield and then clatters to the ground when she shakes it out. She does her best to tamp down the slowly building rage festering in her bones as she crosses the street. The man still does not run, just stands there shaking almost violently, watching her advance on him. When she comes to stand before him, her nose wrinkles. This man looks half dead already, his skin ghostly pale, purple rings beneath his eyes, his hair sparse and greasy. He smells horrible, like he’s soiled himself.

“I suppose you have a death wish,” Clarke muses, hand jumping out to close around the man’s throat, lightning quick. The man drops his gun with a clatter and his face crumples, but he doesn’t cry out in pain; Clarke learned long ago how to control her wards.

“I have— a message,” the man chokes, his eyes bulging as Clarke squeezes impatiently, “from— Echo—” 

Clarke releases him at once, brow drawing together. “She’s alive?”

The man does not wheeze. He clears his throat, nodding as he rubs it. “Here.” He pulls a folded up paper from his pocket and offers it. Clarke snatches it, absently grasping the man’s throat once more as she runs her gaze over the writing. 

Echo wants to meet. Somewhere in the Dead Zone. Neutral territory. Possibly a trap. Most likely a trap.

“Why is she sending a messenger boy?” Clarke asks, shoving the paper into her cloak as she looks apathetically at the man. “I told her to meet me herself a week ago.”

The man says nothing, just stands there choking. Clarke’s upper lip curls in revulsion as she scrutinizes him. He’s on his last legs. She wonders what Echo did to him, to force him to approach Wanheda. Then again, he is Trikru. Maybe he considered this the lesser evil, versus facing the Commander empty-handed. The thought has indignation bubbling up. Clarke scowls and snaps the man’s neck. 

Fine. She’ll deal with this one way or another, whether it’s with Echo or the Commander herself. 

* * *

It isn’t very often Lexa finds herself surprised. But as she’s learning with all things Wanheda...it’s not impossible. Finding herself face to face with her is something she should have seen coming.

She stares at the woman staring back at her. This isn’t the first time she’s laid eyes on Wanheda. The first time she saw her, it was at much more of a distance, smoke and the chaos of battle between them during the Polis riots some five years ago. They’d caught sight of each other across the way; Lexa had only a moment to look at her before the nearest lunging Reaper had her plunging her sword into his heart, and by the time she looked up again, Wanheda was gone. 

She looks much the same now. Same dark clothes, swallowed up in a black cloak. Same red hair. Same skull mask, thick enough you can barely catch a glimpse of Wanheda’s eyes, mostly darkness save for a glint when the light catches them. 

This is certainly the closest they’ve ever been to one another. Less than ten feet between them, but may as well be an entire universe, with the two of them suspended in a crushing vacuum of tension. They stare at one another, alert and unmoving, much the same way a predator eyes another creature, not quite sure yet if it’s prey or another predator- a challenge. 

The proximity affords Lexa the opportunity to study what may be her greatest enemy. Nia had been her most hated one, of course, followed by Ontari— but Lexa knew their powers and their limits, and knew she could hold her own in a fight. Wanheda is relatively unknown. Just as Lexa is sure the Commander’s powers are mysterious to her— for both of them, their enemies don’t tend to leave alive with stories to tell. That Lexa commands blood and Wanheda commands death is the only information most people get. 

It’s been over two weeks since she sent Roan to find Wanheda. She had no reason to doubt Roan’s ability. After all, he’d found people for her before. But Wanheda was different. For one, when Lexa sent people after Wanheda, more to warn her off than anything, Wanheda hadn’t hesitated in reducing them all to ashes. Lexa supposed she may have underestimated her.

She won’t make that mistake again. 

So when she recieved a message on one of the burners from Roan directing her to come here, an abandoned old cathedral smack in the middle of the Dead Zone, Lexa had fully anticipated it being a trap. She doesn’t know if Roan is dead, or if he turned (and if he turned, he would wish he was dead). Either way, she came here tonight prepared to kill him and Wanheda if that was what it took. 

Lexa had climbed through a window and the building was eerily silent, but she knew someone was here. Could sense it, could feel the pulse of blood, could narrow it down to a corner of the wall near an adjacent doorway, but couldn’t see anything. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck had risen, a wave of foreboding sweeping over her— it’s impossible to explain the sixth sense Lexa had, that many of the Natblida had possessed. She knew there was someone there, someone invisible with a ward Lexa couldn’t reach through. And that person clearly sensed her, too. Stepped into the light, the air around them warping as they came into view. They faced one another across the broken pews.

Wanheda. 

And now here they are. Sizing one another up. Watching. Waiting. Curious as to what the other will do.

“Might as well get this over with,” Wanheda breaks the silence. Lexa tilts her head. Her voice is low, husky. Altered through the mask covering her face. But it’s oddly familiar, somehow, which has Lexa on edge at once. 

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d learned someone she knew had a secret life. But this makes the stakes much higher. What if this person recognizes her as well? 

So she doesn’t speak. 

Wanheda waits as though she expects her to. When Lexa still offers nothing, Wanheda shrugs, and pulls a gun out of her waistband. Lexa almost scoffs. 

A gun. How uncivilized.

She pulls her own swords out of their sheaths. Wanheda cocks her head. 

“You brought a knife to a gunfight. Cute.”

 _Who is she?_ Lexa frowns, even as she tenses, dropping into stance as Wanheda raises the gun. _I know that voice._

The woman's chuckle is throaty and low, and Lexa’s bewildered at the tendrils of heat that curl up in the pit of her stomach in response— before clicking the safety off on her gun. “Fine. No foreplay it is.” And then she lunges at her.

Lexa’s first response is to reach for the blood, mentally clawing through the air toward the pulse that calls her like a siren’s song, but she’s stopped as abruptly as if running into a thick wall. Her eyes blow wide as she realizes, a second too late, that her powers won’t work through Wanheda’s shield. It’s going to have to be a physical fight. And Wanheda seems to have realized that at the same time, eyes narrowing and face setting and— 

Sparks pop in the air as Lexa’s sword lodges into the swell of gold protecting Wanheda. She holds on to them, a foot in the air, suspended and clinging on to the hilt of her sword rather than falling back and losing it. She makes to pull it back, but unlike before, it seems stuck; she grits her teeth, yanks, but realizes with a growl that Wanheda is somehow holding onto it with her shield, which has Lexa stuck above her, and she can’t understand why Wanheda has not yet attempted to drive that knife into Lexa’s gut— Lexa would stop it with her own blood, of course, but Wanheda doesn’t know that. But Wanheda isn’t moving at all.

Wanheda is staring, only a glimmer of blue visible through the shadows of her mask, and Lexa frowns back, jaw working as she struggles to line the pieces up, confused and angry.

And then the shield explodes beneath her. Lexa flies through the air, but before she can so much as twist around to get her bearings, Wanheda is on her, shoving her back against the wall, shield blocking her in. Lexa writhes, baring her teeth, moments from reaching up to bring the whole ceiling down on them when she realizes Wanheda’s odd behavior. She’s still just looking at Lexa. And now a gloved hand is rising up, but it’s not moving aggressively— it’s moving slowly, with hesitance. Lexa stills, perplexed, as a thumb drifts over the line of her jaw, the arch of her cheekbone, and then down, grazing across her bottom lip. Her stomach lurches, turning with heat so strong it takes her by surprise. 

Lexa stares into the glint of blue in the dark and feels her heart thud hard against her rib cage. It’s the shock that has her moving on instinct. Wanheda is distracted looking at her, so Lexa manages to shove her arm back, hard enough it hits Wanheda’s face and sends her stumbling, the heavy mask knocked off and clattering to the floor, and Lexa lurches to the side, standing in the aisle so her back’s no longer to a wall, but she makes no move after that. She stares at the newly bared face and recognizes what she already knew from the voice and the caress alone.

Her head spins.

“It’s you?”

The cathedral is empty and desolate. Lexa stands in the centre of it, surrounded by the rubble of broken pews and chunks of fallen roof. Moonlight pours in through the holes far above and the smashed windows around them, glinting on the splinters of shattered stained-glass scattered across the dusty floor. 

Silence swells following her words. She can’t wrap her head around it. The fact that she’s standing there with a woman that she’s been dating for weeks now, and a woman who happens to be her greatest enemy, hungry for death and destruction. 

And that they happen to be the same person. 

“You? _You?_ ” Clarke’s voice shakes, but her hand on the gun is steady as she levels it on Lexa. Her eyes are wild, warpaint smeared across her temples. “ _You’re_ the Commander?”

Lexa opens her mouth. Closes it. Her heart jackhammers in her chest, her pulse rushing in her ears. In contrast with Clarke, who has gone very pale indeed, Lexa flushes as the temperature seems to rise a few uncomfortable degrees. She adjusts her sweaty grip on her dagger, too shocked to note how her hand trembles.

“You’re...Wanheda?” asks Lexa blankly. Clarke doesn’t respond. “Clarke?” 

“Don’t,” says Clarke at once, and now her hand trembles as she shakes her head, great loping swings like an elephant trying to shake the water off its ears. “My— don’t. I don’t want my name in your mouth. I can’t...I can’t _believe…_ ” Clarke shuffles where she stands, shifting her weight from leg to leg as though she wants to pace but won’t dare turn her back to Lexa. Like she doesn’t trust her. And Lexa realizes then that this is someone she shouldn’t trust either. Not as if she trusted Clarke in the first place, but she at least thought she could trust her to be human. But this? This is someone who’s currently lit up like the Polis tower, a golden glow emanating from every part of her like a protective bubble. This is someone who is renowned in this town for her cunning wrath leading to high body counts, perhaps the only other single entity aside from Lexa with too many personal kills to carve into her own skin. This is the being that just took down the mountain single-handedly. This is someone who could kill Lexa, if she gets the chance. This is _Wanheda._

When Lexa tightens her grip on the dagger this time, it’s with a steady hand.

“You tried to kill me,” says Clarke, a little color returning to her face, tinting her cheeks red as she flushes with anger. 

Lexa ticks up a brow, sweeping her free hand out to gesture to the chains on the ground. “ _You_ tried to kill me.”

“You tried to kill me _first_ ,” snaps Clarke. “ _You_ made the first move.”

“You killed three dozen of my best.”

“And _you_ sent them there to kill me!” shouts Clarke. 

So Wanheda is emotional. Lexa takes note of this, stubbornly tries to refer to Clarke only by her title in her head. This is Wanheda. This is _Wanheda_. Clarke doesn’t exist— she never truly existed, not for Lexa.

“You attacked my people. I knew it was you who flung a missile at Tondc.”

“I did _fuck all_.” Clarke’s eyes are so furious; it’s almost strange. Lexa can’t help but think of how surreal this all feels. This woman’s blue eyes are normally soft and warm on her- reserved, yes, but always calm, always kind. Now they’re hard and cold, utterly devoid of any feeling save for wrath. “Spacewalker attacked Tondc. _I_ took care of him.”

“Spacewalker didn’t do tech. We both know he wasn’t working alone.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s dead now, isn’t he?”

“Because I ordered it.”

“And I fucking did it. To keep you out of my hair.”

Her hair. Lexa stares. Clarke’s hair is blonde. Soft, with some natural wave in it. Wanheda’s hair is a dark red, visibly stiff and dirty. Her face is dirty too. The skull mask she usually dons is still on the floor some feet away where Lexa had knocked it off. Now that she knows who she is, she doesn’t know how she ever didn’t before. How could she not see it? Wanheda is _Clarke—_ Clarke is _Wanheda_. Clarke has killed people. Clarke has made Lexa’s life a living hell. 

“You took down the mountain,” Lexa says in disbelief. Clarke notices the tone, scowling as she readjusts her grip on her gun, keeping it trained on Lexa’s head. “ _You_ took down the mountain.”

“You’re welcome,” snaps Clarke. “I did what you’ve spent an entire decade trying to do. I still made sure you took the credit for it, don’t worry.”

Lexa clenches her jaw, squeezing her dagger. 

“Oh, did I touch a nerve? Figured you’d be happy with the credit. Everyone above assumes it was you. ”

“You gave me the blame, not the credit,” Lexa says sharply. “I was working on the mountain. It needed to be done delicately. You waltzed in and blew it up in less than a week. Now the Maunon have scattered and that makes my job even harder.”

“Your _job_ is to control the Coalition. Which _I’m_ not part of.”

“That’s your own fault,” Lexa says. “I offered you a place. You didn’t take it.”

“Because I won’t bow to you!”

“You never even met me!”

Clarke scoffs now and Lexa notices the way her eyes are glossier than usual. The way she shakes her head and that line cuts through her brows. The way her hand is shaking on the gun, just a little. “Apparently I did.”

A muscle jumps in Lexa’s jaw during a protracted silence. “That was years before we met,” she finally mutters. “And it changes nothing.”

“Nothing?” Clarke’s voice is strained now. “ _Nothing?_ You’re right, it doesn’t change anything.” She exhales harshly, blinks, and now the gun doesn’t tremble at all. “You know what _will_ change everything, though? Your death.”

It happens in an instant. Clarke’s finger on the trigger, The first gunshot does not come from Clarke. It’s distant, just beyond the crumbling stone walls, but close enough it has Clarke jerking into action, finger on the trigger. Has Lexa reacting without thought, left hand wrenching up to push the bullet away so it lodges itself in the stone wall instead; right hand hurling her dagger without a thought. It comes to a dead stop in Clarke’s shield, and trembles ominously a foot away from her face, centred right between her eyes. Beyond it Clarke stares at Lexa, her eyes a furious electric-blue.

They lunge at each other.

  
  


* * *

It’s a fight unlike any others Lexa has ever had. They can hardly get near one another. Their attempt to rush one another culminates in an explosion— Wanheda’s shield blowing them far apart, Lexa’s powers pulling the ground, the walls, anything around them to keep distance between them. Nothing goes into Wanheda’s shield but it doesn’t stop anything from coming out of it, because Lexa’s deflecting bullet after bullet until Wanheda’s gun is empty and tossed aside. She makes her regret it a moment later when she chucks it at her just to be an arsenal. Clarke actually pushes her shield out with that one, shoving a wall of gold out toward Lexa that Lexa manages to leap over. She’s not so lucky with the next, that Clarke has towering as high as the ceiling and too wide for Lexa to dodge away from.

Their battle leads them outside the church, when Lexa has no choice but to bring the huge podium across the church to fly in front of her, pushing against Clarke’s shield with it. The resulting explosion has Lexa hurtling backwards through the window, narrowly managing to twist round to land on her feet, just in time for Clarke to throw herself out after her, red hair and black cloak streaming in the wind, shield glittering brightly in the sunlight. 

They’re destroying the alleyway beside the church, creating crators in the pavement and knocking down the nearby walls. It’s lucky this is happening in the Dead Zone, or the PPD or worse, the heroes, would already be here to break it up. 

Lexa barely manages to avoid the wave of gold that rushes her. She lunges to the side, manages to catch the tip of her sword through one wave and belatedly realizes her swords pass through it, unlike the one closest to Wanheda’s body. But if she uses her powers, pushes with her swords, it at least cuts through a thick fog and stops it from knocking her down. 

She sweeps her swords through the waves time and time again, and by the end of it, Clarke is the one panting with the effort. Clearly projecting her shield out takes more energy. Lexa works on darting closer so Clarke is forced to, tries to tire her out, but by the hard fury on Clarke’s face, she’s aware of that. Every time Lexa thinks perhaps this is it, Clarke seems to regain a second wind, and half a dozen more walls push out at her. They’re both breathing heavily after a while, glaring at one another.

They could keep this up forever. They both know it. The curse of being an Other. But eventually someone has to slip up. Lexa will ensure it’s not her.

It takes time, but it happens eventually, when Wanheda’s patience begins wearing thin and she throws more and more wards at Lexa, and Lexa uses dodging them as an excuse to zig-zag closer to Clarke, backing her up into the shadow of the cathedral. This is it. Lexa has no choice but to drop her swords so she can push her hands through the air, fingers clawed as though tearing into it, face screwed up with the effort. Slowly, with an ominous ear-splitting groan, the building beside them shudders. Clarke’s gasp is barely audible above the shattering of the windows and the crashing as the building sways, as Lexa begins to pull it down on them. The walls of gold that were closing in on Lexa vanish as Clarke throws her hands up and enlarges her shield with it, but she has to push that out too, and as Lexa anticipated— that leaves an opening.

She reaches for whatever she can take. Finds an opening somewhere near Clarke’s ankle. Manages to yank her out so fast her shields don’t keep up with her, and then they flicker out of existence when Clarke’s head hits the pavement, hard. Lexa didn’t exactly intend to do that, but the building is coming down hard where Clarke had previously stood. She jerks Wanheda through the air, seizes her body and dives with it toward the tunnel bridge nearby out of harm’s way. Catches her breath as the cathedral crashes to the ground, the deafening explosion sending plumes of dust high in the air. Quickly strips the cloak off Clarke when she realizes the end of it is smoldering, and sends it gliding forward into the roaring fire of the crashed building.

Lexa catches her breath, sliding her swords back into their sheathes before lifting her hands in the air so Clarke hovers up, head lolling, and then guides her down the path and beneath the bridge, heading for the tunnels. It’s full of reapers even on a good day, so it isn’t going to be easy getting an unconscious Wanheda through here, but she doesn’t want to call Titus or Gustus or anyone else. She tells herself it’s because she’s the Commander, she doesn’t need anyone to help her with this. And she resolutely ignores the fact that she can’t take her eyes off Clarke’s face as she hurries through the dark with her, heading for the nearest safehouse, which happens to be the one she tortured Lovejoy in only two weeks ago when she decided to make a move on Wanheda in the first place. And then went out with her date. Who also happened to be Wanheda.

Honestly, _what the fuck_ is all she can think.

* * *

Hours later, things have settled down. Lexa has Wanheda tied up in the basement floor, though she gives her a much more secure treatment than what Lovejoy receieved. She breaks out the special ropes for this. Ties Wanheda standing up, arms and legs spread out, and sits herself down in the lone chair where she’d tortured countless people before and tries to wrap her head around reality.

So this whole time...Clarke was Wanheda. She’d been dating her greatest enemy. Lexa’s fury is somewhat muted by the shock of it all. She actually almost feels impressed. This can’t have been a coincidence, but Clarke had seemed just as stunned as Lexa by the discovery. How in hell...of all the people they could have been with…

The incredulousness of the entire situation propels Lexa to her feet. She needs to stop. She’s hesitating, she can feel it. Why hasn’t she killed Clarke— Wanheda— yet? She’s right there. Unconscious, utterly vulnerable. She has a shield, this may be the easiest opportunity to kill her because the moment Wanheda wakes she’ll put her shield up and from there it’s going to turn into a waiting game. A slow death that Lexa has no doubt Clarke is stubborn enough to entertain. She doesn’t want to give her a slow death. That much she can admit. But that’s it.

This is her greatest enemy. Lexa tells herself she needs to learn as much about her as possible. That’s why she hasn’t killed her yet. She needs to figure out what she knows. After all, Wanheda took down the mountain. She was inside it for months, that’s why the world assumed she was working with it— even the Maunon assumed Wanheda was on their side. How much information could Wanheda have gleaned in that time? Perhaps she knows what Lexa has been trying to discover for years now. Perhaps she can give her a lead.

Lexa paces as she waits for Wanheda to awake. She eventually grows too curious and clasps her hands behind her back, coming to stand before Wanheda to study her.

Wanheda is...annoyingly attractive. Lexa tilts her head as she slides her gaze over the length of her prone body. A curvy hourglass figure and generous breasts, a tantalizing hint of cleavage on show in the blue leather jacket wrapped around her. To help seduce her victims, perhaps? Or perhaps not since she was usually wrapped up in a thick cloak. Perhaps the jacket was undone in their earlier scuffle. Lexa steps forward, pinching a strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger. The red rubs off, chalky and thick, leaving behind a strawberry blonde that turns brighter the more she kneads at it. Frowning, Lexa lifts both hands. Holds them suspended on either side of Wanheda’s head, splaying her fingers wide. Slowly drags them down, peeling the red from her hair as she descends, until all the red hovers in a cloud. Shifts her hands to the right, so it moves over to sprinkle down into the rubbish bin in a pile of red powder. Looks up to see an undisguised Clarke Griffin, golden hair framing her face in a messy curtain, pale pink lips parted as she sleeps.

Lexa steps back, frown deepening. She kissed those lips only days ago. Had her mouth on those breasts, ran her hands through that golden hair. Looked into blue eyes and thought _maybe. Maybe this could work. Maybe this was worth the secrets and lies and all the risks._

She’s not unaware of the irony. And is painfully aware of the strange sensation curdling in her stomach, aching in her chest. It feels like...hurt. Clarke lied to her. And yes, Lexa lied to her too, but— she just didn’t anticipate for Clarke to be doing the same thing. All those times Clarke had smiled at her, laughed with her, held her hand, kissed her softly. Lexa thought she could, to an extent, trust Clarke. And yet...

 _Why am I even thinking like this at all?_ Lexa asks herself, shaking her head in angry disgust. Here she is acting like an uxorious idiot. It’s ridiculous. They were basically strangers who went out on a handful of dates. Lexa certainly wasn’t herself on those dates, so she’s sure Clarke wasn’t herself either. How can you be yourself when you’re playing a part, after all? 

_Stop thinking about it._

She’s saved from her spiraling a moment later when Clarke shifts. Lexa comes to stand before her, studying the way her lashes flutter, her brow pulls together as she slowly comes to. Lexa opens her mouth to speak and doesn’t even get the chance, because the moment Clarke’s eyes fully open, they flash gold, and she throws up a ward so powerful it hits like an explosion and sends Lexa flying back. She slams into the concrete wall before she even has the chance to grasp out with her powers to save herself. Her skull raps against concrete and everything goes black.

When she comes to, it feels like only moments have passed but Clarke is sweating and panting with effort as she strains against her ropes. She stills as Lexa leans forward from where she’s slumped against the wall, wincing as she pulls her blood-matted hair away from the wall it’s stuck to. 

“Hope it hurts like a bitch.”

“Mockery is not the product of a strong mind,” says Lexa dryly, gingerly shifting her hand over her head, healing and pulling the blood free from her hair. She’s satisfied with the way Clarke falls silent, watching her work with narrowed eyes, taking in the way Lexa squeezes her hand into a fist and the blood turns to powder that sprinkles to the floor.

“Where are we?” Clarke asks abruptly.

Lexa stands up first, dusts off her hands on her knees. “A safehouse. It’s remote and filled with frequency blockers. No one will find you.”

Clarke narrows her eyes. “You’re planning on killing me here, I’m guessing. Why haven’t you already done it? What do you want?”

“Information.” 

Clarke lifts an unimpressed brow as she looks around the room. Lexa keeps it meticulously clean. Right now it’s empty save for the two of them. “This is your torture room? How cliche.”

“It’s only a torture room if you make me torture you, Clarke.”

The simple statement seems to charge the room. Clarke looks at Lexa, arching an unimpressed brow. The shield glows brighter. “Good luck with that.”

“That’s fine.” Lexa’s expression doesn’t change, blank and apathetic as she returns to her chair and lounges in it, toying with her dagger, watching Clarke easily. “I have time.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. She’s either truly unafraid, or she’s a fantastic actress. Lexa supposes both could be true.

“Take some time to reconsider your options,” she suggests dryly. “I’m going to shower and fix myself some dinner.”

Clarke doesn’t protest as Lexa climbs the stairs. She just watches her every step until she disappears.

Lexa showers, scrubs the paint from her face and turns the water colder when it doesn’t quite extinguish the heat burning low in her stomach. _Stop getting affected by her._ It doesn’t quite work. Even the shadows in the mirror seem restless.

“I see the Commander is gone,” drawls Clarke later, watching Lexa closely as she descends the stairs. “Now I’m to be bored to tears by Alexandria Woodward, it seems. Just fantastic.”

“I’m sure it’s not the first time. Or did you enjoy those hours in the boardroom listening to discussions about fiscal budgets?"

Clarke rolls her eyes.

The next couple hours proceed with little progress. Lexa tests the bounds of Clarke’s wards in every way possible. Fire, water, electric shock, nothing gets through it. Like before, Clarke shows signs of fatigue, so it obviously takes some effort to maintain them, but also like before, she shows no signs of wearing out beyond breathing heavier. Clarke doesn’t withdraw her shield at all, not even when Lexa offers water and food, not even when Lexa warns her pissing herself would have consequences— and by the unaffected look Clarke gives her at that she is certain if Clarke needed to go, she would have emptied her bladder just to spite her then.

As Lexa anticipated, this is going to take time. A long time. You can’t torture someone who won’t allow you to get close to them. Under normal circumstances, Lexa would have the patience of a saint in this situation. But this is not a normal circumstance. This is Wanheda. And Lexa can’t stop staring at her.

“So this whole time you’ve been the Commander,” speaks Clarke some time later, apparently far more affected by boredom than Lexa. She’s been studying the torture weapons hung on the distant wall for some time now. “I’m curious. Not much is known about the famous Commander. What exactly are all your powers? I saw the moving things with your mind part. What else?”

 _Moving things with your mind part._ Lexa suppresses a snort. 

“It’s called psychokinesis,” she says drolly.

“Whatever. What else?”

Lexa is silent. Clarke raises her brows. 

“I think we both know you have no intentions of letting me leave here alive, so what can it hurt to tell me?”

Lexa’s not going to tell her everything. But she can tell her what most already know, at least. She gets to her feet, approaches Clarke. 

“I have...an exemplary sense of control over blood.” There’s no metallic ring as she slides her swords out of their sheaths on her back, just silence and the quiet sounds of Clarke catching her breath. Lexa watches her closely for any change of expression as she steps forward, letting the light glint on the deep, almost black crimson of her dual swords. Satisfaction surges in her chest when Clarke’s eyes narrow slightly as they take in the sight.

“So you actually did forge them in blood,” she says, and her voice is toneless and her expression indifferent but Lexa can tell by the way her eyes linger that she’s curious. Perhaps even impressed. “How many kills did that take?”

“Hundreds.” 

Clarke still doesn’t react. “How’d you do it?”

Lexa looks down at the blades. The hilt warms in her palm, and the familiar compulsion rises up in her, swelling in her chest. She feels the slow crawl of blood down her cheeks; feels the defiant pulse of Clarke’s forcefield as it renders it null. Still, Lexa reaches up, drags her fingertips through the blood, and absently strokes over one of her blades, relishing the tingles as the blood is absorbed. “Exsanguinated and then cremated them all. Used the blood and the carbon to forge the steel blades.” She doesn’t mention she had help with it— that Anya is gifted in metallurgy and it was her idea in the first place to cremate the bodies to make use of the carbon, melting it down and distorting the crystal lattice of the steel. She also doesn’t mention that she happens to have more swords and even a staff at home, all made in the same way.

“Is this your only power?” she asks softly, dragging a finger town the visible curve of Clarke’s shield. It doesn’t really feel like anything at all, except she can’t push through it, like an invisible barrier. 

“That’s not really any of your business, is it?”

Lexa can’t prevent the slight curve of her smile as she slides her swords back into their sheaths. “I thought this was a _I show you mine, you show me yours_ situation.”

“Not anymore. You’re boring me.”

Lexa presses her lips together, bemused. “You’re an outlier, it seems. I’ll admit I’m not used to hearing that.”

“Of course you aren’t.” Clarke looks at her, then, an eyebrow raising. “You know, you could at least make it more interesting. Sexual torture would be more fun. For both of us.”

Lexa ignores the stirring in her gut that the words and the way Clakre looks at her as she says them puts in her. “The point isn’t for you to have fun. You need to tell me what you know.”

“Yeah but there are better ways of loosening someone’s tongue, don’t you think? Or is it true what they say?”

Lexa deadpans her. Of course Clarke continues anyway. 

“The Commander really is all work and no play.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “That sounded like a bad film line. Now who’s the cliche?” 

“Come on. Don’t tell me you haven't considered it.” Clarke watches her closely, blue eyes far too knowing for Lexa’s comfort. “I’m right here, tied up and spread out— you haven’t thought about touching me? About being inside me?”

Lexa hates that she can’t quite hide the swallow she takes in time. She cuts her gaze away, ignoring the smug insistence that seems to emanate from Clarke with every bit the substance as her shield. 

“It wasn’t that long ago that you were. What did you have, two fingers in me? It’s been a while. I can’t quite remember. Did you even make me come?” Clarke laughs lightly when Lexa’s eyes flash onto her, jaw clenched tightly. Lexa tries to reign it in, tries not to let Clarke under her skin. 

It’s just like work all over again. Clarke got under her skin then, too. That was the whole problem, the entire ordeal that led to Lexa asking her out. If Lexa wasn’t such a goddamn lesbian, her life would be so much simpler.

“I think we both felt the evidence of that,” says Lexa coolly. 

“Maybe you should remind me.”

She notices the way Clarke is watching her. Perhaps thinking about the last time Lexa was inside her. Of course Clarke would stoop so low. At best she expects Lexa to fall prey, get close enough for her to snap her jaws. At the least she’ll annoy Lexa and get under her skin, cause her to get sloppy. 

Neither is going to happen. She’s going to play this game just as much, then. (She resolutely ignores the thrill that rockets up her body at the idea.) 

“At least there’s something to remind you of,” Lexa says mildly, tilting her head. “If I recall correctly, one of us had an orgasm. One of us did not. If someone’s skills are in doubt, they aren’t mine.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow. “Hm. Bad news for you. Not sure about that raincheck now.”

Lexa hums back. “It’s a shame.”

“It is.” Blue eyes are as sharp as they are dark now. “It really is. I know what it’s like to be fucked by you. You missed out on the chance. Sucks for you.”

Air escapes Lexa’s nose in an expulsion of amusement. “We didn’t _fuck_ , Clarke. Not properly. You think I’d fuck a human the same way? Clearly you’ve never slept with your own kind. You have no idea.”

Clarke’s eyes darken, but this time it seems more in anger. “I have fucked Others before, for your information. It’s not a big enough difference to leave me wondering. _You_ have no idea. ”

“If they fucked you properly, you wouldn’t be arguing.” Lexa smirks at the way Clarke glowers at her, but the smirk is quickly wiped away at Clarke’s next words. 

“Maybe if you fucked me properly, you wouldn’t be wondering either. If you’re going to bore me you might as well do it fucking me.”

The ache in Lexa increases tenfold. She ignores it, again. “I already told you. Sexual torture? Not on the menu.”

“I’m not telling you anything either way. If I’m stuck here? If I’m fucked either way? I might as well be getting actually fucked.” Clarke raises a brow. “Maybe this time I won’t even have to fake an orgasm to get you to leave.”

She’s satisfied now, smirking as Lexa bares her teeth, nearly snarling at her. 

“Interesting how even a supposed fake orgasm had you spilling all over my hand, Clarke.”

Clarke’s smirk doesn’t fade. “It’s a strange world filled with all sorts of magic. Why don’t you prove it wasn’t fake? Unless you don’t think you can.”

You know what? Clarke is right. If they’re stuck here, they might as well make use of their time.

“You really want to try it that way? Fine.”

Lexa lifts a hand, and for a moment Clarke’s expression falters, giving way to confusion as Lexa just stands there with her arm raised. There’s distant clattering upstairs, and then an object comes whizzing down the stairs and straight into Lexa’s open hand. The confusion wipes clean from Clarke’s face, replaced by an incredulous intensity.

“How is this?” Lexa asks, looking just as closely at Clarke as she steps near her, holding the dildo out for Clarke to see. “Satisfactory?”

Clarke doesn’t answer. She’s finally silent, brow knit, gaze dark where it flits between Lexa’s eyes and the toy in her hand. Lexa has no idea what she’s thinking, but she has a feeling. 

She steps as close to Clarke as she can now, noting the way the shield recedes to let her but still blocks her from coming too near. “I have to touch you to do this, Clarke. You’re going to have to lower your shield.”

“Mm, I’m sure you can get creative.” Clarke’s voice is a low rasp that Lexa can feel the reverberations of deep inside, lingering somewhere between her legs. 

“I’m not sure you could handle me getting creative with you.”

The ghost of a smirk is overshadowed by the dark hunger on Clarke’s face as she looks at Lexa with hooded eyes. “Try me.”

 _God._ Satisfaction and hunger surge within Lexa, burning deep in the pit of her stomach. _Fine._

Lexa steps back. Watches. Lifts a hand, twitches two fingers. The dildo rises into the air, drifting to the left, until it hovers just before Clarke’s spread legs. 

“Can you handle it?” 

Clarke doesn’t answer, eyes locked on the toy. Lexa’s stomach swirls at the sight of a pink tongue darting out to wet Clarke’s lips. She crooks her fingers so the dildo rises up, Clarke’s chin lifting with it, and holds it before her mouth.

“You can test it first.”

Despite the nonchalance Clarke is still aiming for, Lexa can see it— watches her closely as she tries to control her own breathing, a progressively difficult thing to do when she can see how dark Clarke’s eyes are. She’s affected. For a moment, there’s only the quiet hush of Clarke’s quickened breathing and Lexa’s blood rushing in her ears. 

Clarke opens her mouth and already has her tongue sliding over the tip of the dildo when Lexa’s stomach clenches and she curls her fingers, moving it into her mouth. Curls them more, until they’re nearly vertical, and Clarke’s throat bulges but she doesn’t gag once. Unfurls her fingers and furls them again, three times, watching hungrily as the dildo slides in and out of the pretty pink lips wrapped around it before she draws it back with a wet pop. It glistens with saliva in the low light.

It seems to take Clarke a moment to drag her gaze away from it. She looks at Lexa with eyes so dark they appear black, lids heavy and low. Lexa arches a brow.

“So?” Clarke doesn’t answer in favor of licking her lips again, eyes drifting to the dildo once more. Lexa struggles to tamp down the excitement and impatience boiling in her gut as she steps forward, only a foot away from Clarke now. “Can you handle it?”

Clarke’s answer is in the subtle shake of her thighs, as though she’s trying to spread them even more. Lexa nods slowly. 

“Okay. If you want me to stop, just tell me, and I will.”

“Will you?” challenges Clarke. Despite the visible arousal she shows, there’s something dark in her eyes that speaks of hesitation, of resentment. This is, after all, between the Commander and Wanheda. 

But what Clarke has yet to learn is that their identities are closely entwined. Lexa and the Commander are not separate: they’re the same beings. Just like Clarke is Wanheda and Wanheda is Clarke. It would be easier to claim a distinction— but inaccurate. Cowardly.

Clarke will learn that, in time. Just like Lexa did.

“Always.” Lexa holds her gaze, eyes fierce and steady, when Clarke stills, head tilting curiously at how Lexa’s seemingly broken whatever charade they have going on. “I would sooner kill you than touch you without consent.”

“Because that makes sense.”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?”

Lexa’s gaze bores into her. “Kill me? Rid yourself of an enemy?”

Clarke doesn’t hesitate. She nods.

“And would you touch me without my permission?”

No hesitation here either. “No. I’m not...that’s not who I am.”

“Me either.” Lexa steps closer, leans forward, not quite touching Clarke’s skin though her whisper curls into Clarke’s ear. “So anytime, if you want me to stop, just say, and I will. Now, do you want me to fuck you?”

She burns with satisfaction at the tiny noise that gets caught in Clarke’s throat; a growl or a whimper, Lexa isn’t sure which. It doesn’t matter because right now, she’s in control. Right now, Clarke’s looking at her with pupil-blown eyes and a body trembling with desire, and Lexa holds all the power.

And it makes her achingly, impossibly wet.

Clarke gives her a tiny, breathless nod and Lexa lowers her fingers so the dildo trails down. It gravitates between Clarke’s spread thighs and remains floating there, quivering the same way Lexa’s hands do as she reaches out to place them on Clarke’s hips. She moves her head again, tip of her nose brushing the line of Clarke’s jaw, the curve of her neck and the jut of her collarbones. She absorbs every quiet ragged intake of breath Clarke makes as she presses her lips to her skin. Her finger heats as she hardens her nail and lightly presses the tip to the centre of Clarke’s chest, and Lexa’s heart gallops in her ears, heat flooding her body when Clarke lets slip the tiniest gasp as Lexa traces her finger down in one slow, steady line, her nail cutting through the fabric like butter, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin as it falls apart.

“Fuck.” The world slips from Lexa’s lips before she can stop it, low and full of strained reverence, and Lexa can’t even find it in herself to be angry because watching the torn tank fall away from Clarke’s chest to reveal full breasts clad in a plain black bra is...distracting, to say the least. They’re warm and heavy in Lexa’s hands when she cups them, biting her approval into the bruised skin of Clarke’s shoulder.

Clarke gives another strangled groan as Lexa’s thumbs sweep over nipples stiff even through the fabric. She breathes out something like relief when Lexa slices her nail through the straps to cut them loose before reaching around Clarke’s back to undo the band. She lets the bra drop to the floor and has to actually take a moment just to stand there, dizzy as she is at seeing Clarke’s bare breasts in her hands, at watching her puckered nipples further harden as she gently rubs them. Clarke’s breathing is unashamedly haggard now, and the ropes strain as she arches into Lexa’s touch.

Lexa’s hands drop back down to her hips again, and her thumbs warm as she hooks them into the waistband and cuts her nail through the denim. She uses one hand to peel a side down while her other curves around to cup Clarke between her legs, heat blistering her palm. She presses another biting kiss to Clarke’s shoulder, soothes the sting with her tongue when Clarke hisses.

Cleanly cut fabric pools at Lexa’s feet as it falls away and Clarke remains spread out before her, entirely naked now. Lexa doesn’t intend to give her the satisfaction of a lingering look, but she can’t help it; she leans back just to drink her in. It’s infuriating, really. If she just looked like Lexa imagined Wanheda...wild, matted red hair and dirty skin...perhaps there wouldn’t be so much arousal pulsing through her, insistent and demanding attention. She never would have imagined that _this_ was Wanheda: a perfect hourglass figure, smooth skin, perfectly pink lips, and those lovely blue eyes. Blonde hair falling down her shoulders in soft waves. She’s undeniably beautiful. And Lexa is undeniably attracted to her.

She doesn’t make her wait for it; she presses one last soft kiss to Clarke’s chest before raising her hand. Lifts her fingers and the dildo slides upward, turning at a vertical angle. Observes every twitch of Clarke’s body, the hunger rolling off her in waves as the dildo slowly dips down, sliding through her folds; Clarke’s body jumps, hips twitching, as it drags against her clit. Lexa’s eyes flutter shut— she doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to miss a thing, but she can just imagine the sensations, can imagine the give of pressure against the dildo as it glides through wet folds and presses against the stiff bump of Clarke’s clit and sinks, ever so slightly, into the soaked heat at her core. Her eyes crack open at half mast to see Clarke in the same situation, lashes fluttering, as the dildo pushes into her by tiny increments. Lexa crooks her fingers, lifting her hand, and it sinks in further.

“God,” breathes Clarke, almost inaudible as she tips her head back, muscles flexing as she winds her wrists around the rope so she can grip it and hold tight.

Lexa forces herself to stand tall and unaffected, to hide the fact that all she wants is to step forward to reach for Clarke— to touch, to kiss, to taste her. She’s supposed to hate her. She _does_ hate her. This is supposed to be punishment— to make her feel good and then take it all away, to let her know that yes, Lexa’s going to let her live but Clarke will have to live with _this_ forever— the knowledge that her greatest enemy had her like this, that everyone she ever has after her will be unsatisfying, that she’ll always, always have Lexa in her head.

Instead Lexa is trembling. Biting her lip to distract herself from the heat churning through her body, the powerful pull deep in her belly that pulsates between her legs. She’s surrounded by everything Clarke— the dizzying smell of her arousal, the sight of her spread out before her, breasts juddering with each heaving breath, the obscenely wet sounds as the dildo slowly impales her before drawing out and doing it all over again. It’s enough to have Lexa shifting where she stands, desperate for some relief— and friction.

She continues undulating her fingers in the air, curling them on every other stroke to change the angle of the dildo. Clarke's biting her lip, clearly trying not to vocalize her pleasure, but Lexa's always loved the opportunity to rise to a challenge- they're so rare, after all.

"How does it feel?" she murmurs, stepping close to Clarke again, enough to feel the heat of her body and see the sweat shimmering on her skin. "To be fucked like this?" She flattens her fingers out, slowly, drawing the dildo out with a wet squelch that drags a whimper out of Clarke's throat. "To be fucked by me?" Pulls her fingers in quickly, slamming the toy back inside Clarke. Clarke finally moans and Lexa breathes in deeply, her clit throbbing. "No one else can fuck you like this." Taps her fingers, dildo moving in shallow, rapid thrusts that cause Clarke's hips to jog to keep up with. "No one can fuck you like _me_."

Lexa shouldn't touch her. She had no intentions to. But now she stands right before her, the smell of her arousal filling her nose and the sounds of the dildo sliding in and out of her ringing in her ears, and there's a dull red flush all over Clarke's bare skin and her golden hair is loose and as wild as her eyes as she throws her head back and rolls her body as best she can with her limbs roped up, and Lexa doesn't want to fight it. 

She crowds in close to her again, nose brushing heated skin, lips ghosting over the hollow of her throat. She scrapes her teeth across her collar bone and presses a soft kiss to the side of her neck. Releases a sharp breath through her nostrils when Clarke’s breath hitches after she bites down. She sucks over her pulse point as one hand crawls up Clarke’s body while the other continues to undulate in the air in a steady rhythm. 

Lexa won’t lie to herself. Clarke is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her. Even with her shield down, she’s still glowing, her energy still hot and crackling, sparking like a livewire that might shock Lexa if she lingers too long. She watches, entranced, the effects of her touch ripple over Clarke’s body. The flex of muscles beneath her fingertips as she skates over her stomach. The heaving of her breath as she clatters over each notch of her ribs. The way Clarke moans when one finger circles the soft knots of her areola, gently bumping against a nipple that doesn’t need to be coaxed to rise to a stiff peak. Can’t resist bending down to close her mouth over it, unconsciously curling her fingers as she sucks and pushing the toy higher inside Clarke, who sways in the air as she cries out.

“More,” Clarke pants. Lexa finds herself oddly satisfied by the fury behind the desperation coloring Clarke’s tone, giving it weight. As such, she obliges. Lifting a third finger to join the others, spreading them wide to enlarge the dildo and watching with rapture the relief and mindless pleasure rippling across Clarke’s face as it swells inside her, stretching her, filling her. Her mouth hangs open as Lexa crooks her fingers to slowly inch the dildo out...and then pushes it right back in. Clarke’s teeth snag her lower lip and Lexa studies the give of it, aching with want.

 _Don’t kiss her,_ she tells herself. Fucking her to prove a point is one thing. Kissing isn’t necessary. 

She kisses her.

Lifts her free hand up to cup the back of Clarke’s sweaty neck and pulls her head up to press their mouths together. Loses herself in soft lips that part beneath hers at once. Feels her stomach drop when Clarke’s tongue sweeps into her mouth. She tastes dangerous; like everything Lexa should stay away from. This isn’t a pretty girl she can get lost in. This is Clarke Griffin. This is Wanheda. Wanheda is an excellent kisser.

A filthy kisser, all tongue and bite that’s specifically designed to make Lexa weak in the knees as she imagines how incredible that mouth would feel situated between her legs. Clarke flexes against her ropes again and Lexa’s tempted to untie them. She wants so much more than this is supposed to be— wants Clarke writhing beneath her, on top of her, around her, inside her. Wants to fuck her with her mouth and then her fingers, magic be damned. Wants Clarke sitting on her face and riding her through the floor.

She can’t do that. 

“Fuck, fuck,” gasps Clarke, body shuddering violently. Lexa closes her eyes, fingers pulsating the same way Clarke’s cunt pulsates around the dildo. She moves her entire arm, three fingers rolling, curling them in tightly on every other thrust, and Clarke cries out with each curl as the dildo presses against her inner wall. Lexa breathes out a curse and buries it in the crook of Clarke’s neck, sucking bruises into her skin. Her free hand trails down to grip Clarke’s behind, squeezing firm, plump flesh in her hand and quietly noting the way Clarke’s gasps turn higher pitched when her fingers press in, deeply enough to leave imprints. 

“Oh, God,” groans Clarke, head falling back and body seeming to rise up, chest puffing out as her stomach flattens, going silent as she holds her breath—

And then she cries out in protest, lifting her head to level Lexa with frantic, clouded eyes, expression twisted with despair, when with a twitch of Lexa’s fingers, the dildo pulls out.

“You come when I say you do,” Lexa tells her, observing her emotionlessly, wondering if she’s managing to hide the desire burning inside. Twitches her fingers again so the dildo slides back in with little resistance. 

“Fuck you,” Clarke manages to say, words bit off with a grunt that trails into a groan as the dildo is pulled out and pushed in again.

“Later. It’s my turn right now.” 

Lexa waits until Clarke is shaking and her breath is sobbing out, waits until she’s dripping onto the floor, waits until she’s almost mindless, eyes wheeling and tearing up, before she finally lets her go. She takes a step back for this— wants to watch her, wants her to know Lexa can make her come without even having to touch her. 

She stands with at least two feet between them, one arm rising and falling in midair, wrist bent and fingers crooked, curling and thrusting. The dildo pounds into Clarke with enough force to have her swaying on the ropes, hips jerking and body arching. Lexa’s fingers burn with warmth, her skin puckered and wrinkled though her hands are as dry as a bone save for the flush of her palms. She wrenches the dildo out, shoves it back again even when Clarke’s cunt pulsates, muscles constricting, clinging onto it tightly; even when she wails as the orgasm rips through her, cum streaking down her quaking thighs and splattering the floor below in a puddle that grows when Lexa keeps at it— makes her come again, and again, until Clarke’s moans have turned to harsh sobs even as she demands more.

Somewhere after the fourth orgasm, Clarke jerks her head and whimpers out a “Stop, I can’t—” and Lexa ceases at once. 

The room smells of sex. It’s enough to have Lexa’s head spinning, but she does her best to ignore it and maintain her composure as she walks forward. 

“Are you okay to remove it?” she asks quietly.

Clarke exhales a ragged sigh, and gives an infinitesimal nod. She hisses out a breath when Lexa gently uncurls her fingers and slowly, slowly lowers them. It takes a moment, Clarke’s muscles greedily clutching at the dildo, but eventually it slides out with a slurp and falls to the puddle on the floor with a wet flop.

Lexa gives her a moment to recover, catching her breath as the twitches of her body gradually lessen. “I suppose we’ve finally found something you’re good at,” she says softly. “Coming for me.”

Clarke levels her with a heavy-lidded stare, breathless and flushed, body sagging with exhaustion but eyes gleaming with conviction.

“Untie me,” she orders.

Lexa pauses, turning to look at Clarke, head tilted, clasping her hands behind her back to hide how they shake. Can’t help but shift her weight on her legs, too filled with restless want to stand still. “And why would I do that?”

Clarke’s brow draws together, mouth downturning. She didn’t like that. “You said I’d get my turn.”

Lexa expels a soft huff of breath out of her nostrils, lips curving sardonically. “You actually think I’d let you free?”

Silence for a moment, as Clarke processes what Lexa said, visible fury rippling across her face. Her eyes are still dark with want and though Clarke is spread eagle suspended stark naked in the air right now, Lexa is the one who feels naked beneath her knowing gaze.

“Don’t act like you aren’t wet right now,” says Clarke, voice pitched low; Lexa can feel the rasp of it crawling down her spine, gravitating toward the heat that rages in the pit of her stomach and between her legs. “I see how you look at me. How does it make you feel, seeing me like this?” Her head rolls on her neck as she loftily tilts, looking up at Lexa beneath thick lashes. “Spread out for you. Naked. Bare. Soaked.”

Lexa’s jaw tics but she doesn’t let herself look away. She prays she’s coming across as collected because her body feels like it's seconds from erupting into fire. “I am not blind, Clarke. You are attractive.” She steps forward, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body— or perhaps for Clarke to feel the heat coming off her. “And yes, I am wet.” Leans forward, voice dropping, noting with a thrill how Clarke’s eyes flutter down, gaze fixed on Lexa’s lips. “Drenched, even. And I do plan on doing something about it.” She steps back abruptly, smirking slightly at the way Clarke blinks rapidly. “But I can take care of it myself.”

“Seriously?” snaps Clarke, jaw set and teeth clenched. Her limbs strain against the ropes. “You’d rather fucking finger yourself than let me have my turn?”

“Who said anything about fingering myself?” Amused, Lexa lifts a hand, crooks a finger. The dildo rises off the floor, dripping. Clarke gapes for a split second before appearing to remember herself, narrowing her stony gaze. 

“If you want to fuck yourself, be my guest. It won’t compare with what I could do to you.”

“Maybe so,” Lexa says, unconcerned as she shrugs and takes a step back. “But I know where you are if I change my mind. It isn’t as if you’re going anywhere, is it?” Clarke’s lips twist in a snarl, and Lexa can’t quite hide her satisfied smile. “Here, I’ll leave this little reminder for you. I have other toys.” The dildo falls back to the floor with another wet flop, and Lexa turns on her heel. She hopes her shaky impatience isn’t too obvious as she tosses a vague wave of dismissal over her shoulder as she heads for the staircase. “I’ll bring you some food in an hour or two.” Or three. 

If Lexa weren’t so distracted, so overcome with insistent desire propelling her to hurry upstairs as fast as possible, she might have looked back. She might have noticed the way the rage and anguish on Clarke’s face gave way when she looked up with stunned disbelief at her left wrist. She might have noticed the rope was far looser than it should be, and she certainly would have noticed the triumph gleaming on Clarke’s face.

Clarke was right, though, Lexa thinks bitterly as she fucks herself to sleep. This just doesn’t compare.

* * *

It takes what feels like a very long time for Clarke to finally free herself.

After managing to free a wrist (rubbed raw from her efforts), she clumsily unties herself and only just manages to catch herself as she lands. She staggers, legs shaking beneath her so violently it nearly brings her to the floor. God, every part of her aches. She takes a few shaky steps to the door, pausing to shut her eyes and lick her lips, brow momentarily creasing and whimper stuck clawing at her throat as her thighs rubbing together puts fleeting pressure on her clit that’s still swollen and tender. 

_That fucking cunt_ , she thinks furiously about Lexa. She could kill her. She wonders what she’s doing right now— Is she still here, upstairs? Clarke can’t imagine she’d have left. Is she actually fucking herself? It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed since Lexa left her down here. At least a couple hours, Clarke would wager. She’s certain it wouldn’t take Lexa that long. 

Rage still pulses through her at this entire situation. Honestly? It’s not even the fact that Clarke was captured, imprisoned, and tortured that pisses her off the most. It’s that this is the second time— _the second fucking time_ — Lexa has smugly enjoyed the upper hand and left before Clarke could get a chance to blow her mind (not like she _cares_ about making her feel good, Clarke stubbornly tells herself as she manages another couple steps toward the stairs, but it’s a matter of _principal_. It’s about _respect_ ).

Jaw and shoulders set, Clarke twists round to spy the mess still on the floor below where she’d been tied up. The floor gleams with the puddle and there, in the centre of it all, lay the dildo. Clarke walks over to it, legs steadier with each step as the numbness is finally walked out of them. She snatches the toy off the floor and spins on her heel, the faint golden glow of her shield lighting up the darkness of the basement, and crosses the room to march up the staircase. The room is plunged into darkness again when she shifts into nothingness, light flickering away as she turns invisible a split second before opening the basement door.

This place is cold and empty, and Clarke wonders if Lexa lives here. Surely not; it doesn’t look lived in. More likely this functions as some sort of lair. She nearly snorts at the thought. Her head’s no longer spinning at the reveal of the Commander’s true identity. (It is spinning a bit at the fact that Clarke was fucked by her, though). 

It takes another flight of stairs to find her, because of course it does. Most of the rooms here are as empty and untouched as the rest of the house, but the room at the far end is open, door cracked. It’s dark in there as Clarke slips in, but she can see from the light leaking through the cracks in the window blinds that Lexa’s sprawled out in bed, fast asleep. Even when Clarke climbs onto the bed, slow and wary, Lexa does not stir or do much of anything except sigh in her sleep.

She must have really worn herself out. Clarke suspects Lexa may not have slept in over forty eight hours— since the moment she attacked her in Tondc. But she likes to think the majority of the reason Lexa is so exhausted is the hand currently sticking half out her pants. Clarke’s lips curl into a half smirk, satisfied. So Lexa was so affected she really did have to take care of herself (Damn right). There’s a simmering low in the pit of Clarke’s stomach, and it’s not anger. Part of her chastises herself for feeling this way right now, for this person, especially after the four orgasms she had not too long ago, but she’s not particularly surprised (I mean, God. Just _look_ at her).

Clarke hovers over her, and only takes a beat (one heartbeat) to make the decision. She dips down, brushes her lips along the sharp line of Lexa’s jaw. Tongue slipping out to taste the salt of her skin, still flushed and warm. She kisses every inch of skin from collarbone to chin, and it still takes a minute for Lexa to register it. She wakes slowly, frowning before blearily cracking open her eyes, and then her frown deepens even more.

Clarke can imagine how disconcerting this must be. To wake to the feeling of someone atop you, kissing and touching, but you look and no one’s there. She can tell, by the way Lexa twitches a hand, she’s searching for something to grasp with her powers, blood or body, but Clarke’s shield is up (and she has to work hard to make a conscious effort to keep it up. The taste of Lexa’s skin, the feel of her arching beneath her, the tiny shudders of breath— it’s all very distracting).

“Clarke,” Lexa breathes, lashes fluttering even as her brow furrows in frustration. “You- how the fuck did you-”

“You fucked me and left,” Clarke murmurs directly into her ear before scraping her teeth along the shell; hand gliding up and down the slender curve of Lexa’s torso and hip.

Lexa gives a huff that’s not quite as derisive as it should be when it’s catching on a gasp and she’s turning her head to give Clarke more access to kiss her way down her neck.

“You’ve been fucking me for years by encroaching on my territory.”

“Mmm.” Clarke leans back as she shifts into visibility; watches the moment Lexa’s eyes focus on her, how her pupils eat away the green as they take in the sight of Clarke naked and spread out above her. Clarke bends down again, ghosting a kiss over Lexa’s ear before confessing, “And it felt so good every time.”

Clarke thought she was ready for it, but Lexa is faster and stronger than she gave her credit for. The words have barely left Clarke’s lips when Lexa’s flipping them over with a snarl. Clarke on her back in the next second, narrow hips nestled between the meat of her thighs before Lexa pulls herself up onto all fours, knees at the sides of Clarke’s waist. Clarke doesn’t betray her surprise, or her disdain for being beneath her (there are worse places to be, honestly). She just lifts her arms and stretches, unfurling like a cat, the arch of her back pushing her bare breasts on full display right before Lexa’s face. It does what she anticipated and Lexa falls silent at once, gaze zeroing in with such predictability it’s almost laughable.

“So how good did you make yourself feel?” Clarke asks softly, noting the quickening of Lexa’s breath as she reaches out, traces her hand down her torso. Lexa’s wearing the same clothes she wore last night, a very nice leather jacket and a plain cotton t-shirt. It’s unfair she’s seen Clarke naked— has fucked her twice now, while Clarke hasn’t had a single chance to touch her. That’s Lexa’s loss, though. “When you touched yourself.”

“Nowhere near as good as it felt for you when I touched you, I’m sure.”

“And whose fault is that?” Clarke watches her from beneath her lashes as she slips her hand up the hem of Lexa’s shirt, splaying her fingers out over the smooth taut skin of Lexa’s waist. She’s barely brushed over the hard bump of Lexa’s nipple, straining against the tight fabric of her bra, when Lexa takes a sharp intake of breath and her hand jumps up to grab Clarke’s wrist.

Clarke stills, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

Lexa stares at her in return. “I should.”

“But you don’t.”

A beat. “No.”

Clarke considers her. Slowly licks her lips and twists her wrist in Lexa’s grasp, placing her hand over Lexa’s and leading her to her own waistband. Desire rushes in Clarke’s veins, pools between her legs as she guides their hands into Lexa’s pants and applies pressure to Lexa’s fingers, pushing her into her own wetness.

“Do you want to come?”

Lexa takes in a ragged breath as they press in more, hips tipping toward the touch. But then she’s drawing out, and despite the overwhelming urge to feel exactly what made Lexa’s fingers so wet, Clarke follows suit and withdraws too.

But Lexa isn’t done, Clarke realizes, when Lexa’s gaze makes a slow, heated pass down her body, lingering on her breasts. 

Clarke cranes her head up, kisses Lexa’s throat. “Tell me what you do want.”

It takes Lexa a moment to answer, and when she does, her voice is rough. “I want to watch you.”

Heat rushes to the apex of Clarke’s thighs, and she stares at Lexa with dawning realization curling up a corner of her mouth. Oh. That could easily be arranged.

This time Lexa’s the unprepared one as Clarke shifts, hooking a leg behind her back and rolling them in one smooth movement. Lexa just looks up at her, eagerness glinting in her wide, dark eyes. She raises her arms to help when Clarke shoves her jacket off her shoulders and strips her t-shirt away, followed quickly by her bra. Her pants are next, and all too soon Lexa lay sprawled out before her, utterly naked. Gorgeous. Clarke’s mouth goes dry, all moisture seeming to gravitate south where she’s actually started to drip onto Lexa now. Which Lexa has clearly noticed if the way she’s looking at Clarke with glazed eyes is any indication, her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth. Clarke leans forward to free it and capture it between her own, suckling as she grinds against Lexa, swallowing the sharp gasps she tips into her mouth.

“Touch me,” she orders, and the Commander is happy to comply. 

Clarke shudders as Lexa cups her breasts in her hands, thumbs sweeping around and around, narrowing into tight little flicks over her nipples. Each touch sends pleasure crackling like electricity from the points of contact, streaking down to the heavy ache settled deep in her stomach and between her legs. She wants fucked again. Now. But she doesn’t want Lexa in control.

Lexa doesn’t even notice Clarke reaching for the dildo that lay on the other side of the mattress, not until Clarke is drawing back and brings it over to tap against Lexa’s stomach. Clarke waits until Lexa looks back up to meet her eyes before she arches a brow at her and moves again.

Lexa watches, mouth open and chest heaving, as Clarke splits her thighs and positions the same dildo between them. They both seem to hold their breath as Clarke slowly, slowly begins to sink down on it. Lexa grips Clarke’s hips, fingers leaving white indentions one by one as the toy is incrementally swallowed up, the quiet wet sounds the only thing breaking the silence.

And then she starts to move.

A lazy, deliberate sort of rocking, the base of the dildo pressed into Lexa’s mound as though she were wearing a strap. The bed creaks ominously as Clarke grinds, mouth falling open with a huff as the toy shifts within her, nestled deep inside. It’s not enough, and Clarke tries to compensate by rocking harder, lifting herself up and falling back down on it. Lexa pushes her hips forward to help provide a little extra weight, and each time she pushes the tip of the toy rubs against this spot right on Clarke’s inner walls, a spot she’s intimately familiar with and also tragically unacquainted with of late, but Lexa seems to have no trouble finding it even with only her hips doing the work. When Clarke feels a knuckle brush against the inside of her thigh, she looks down and realizes Lexa’s holding the dildo— and that perhaps she’s doing something to help the toy find that spot inside her after all. 

Which, what the fuck. She should be aggravated by the fact that Lexa is using her powers on her and annoyed by the presumption that Lexa knew enough to find that in an area she’d only explored once before, but here they are. Clarke’s breath catches, biting off into a low moan when the toy tips up against her again, and Lexa’s hand on her waist flexes, digging in sharply; a moment later that pressure is gone, and Clarke’s moan shifts into a whine when a hand cups her breast, massaging it before a finger and a thumb come together in the centre.

“Oh, fuck.”

Clarke’s eyes slam shut, teeth digging into her lip hard enough to bruise as her body tightens, her clit throbs and her cunt gushes. Her shield flickers, and perhaps if she had the wherewithal she’d notice Lexa wasn’t taking advantage of it, too invested in this inevitable outcome. An outcome approaching far quicker than Clarke was prepared for.

“Oh my God, fuck, I’m— I’m going to—” 

She trails into an unintelligible whine before her breath catches, everything catches and freezes and goes still except for Lexa beneath her. One hand still on her breast, pulling and squeezing her nipple; the other still on the dildo, and the dildo continues to move despite the fact that Clarke has frozen atop it. Just small movements, a come hither twitch that rubs against her inner walls.

That’s all it takes.

She comes with a groan, shuddering atop Lexa violently enough to shake them both, the room flashing as her shield flickers on and off before fizzing into a muted glow. Clarke slumps atop Lexa, face buried in the side of her neck where a pulse pounds and nudges Clarke’s nose. 

Fuck, that was _so good_. Pleasure rolls through her in waves, and it feels amazing. Incredible. Almost enough to soften her toward Lexa.

Almost, but not quite.

“Your turn,” she manages breathlessly, pushing herself up again. Lexa looks at her with raised brows, as though surprised— or desperate, considering the way she’s so tight and tense beneath her. 

Clarke shifts atop her body; Lexa removes her hand but the dildo stays in. Clarke is clenching onto it too tightly to bother pulling it out anyway, so she ignores it for now in favor of shuffling over until she’s half draped over the side of Lexa’s body, and can slip her right hand where Lexa needs her most. 

“So wet,” Clarke murmurs, and it’s not a lie; Lexa is absolutely soaked, drenching her fingers as she explores her soft folds, swollen with need. “How do you want it?” She bends down, licks a stripe up her neck. “You want me inside you?” She takes the way Lexa’s eyes flutter as a yes.

There’s zero resistance as she pushes two fingers inside her. Lexa presses her lips together, swallowing the low moan that slinks up her throat. Clarke draws it out freely a moment later, with her mouth latched to the straining column of Lexa’s throat, and the pad of her thump propped up against a stiff clit as she pumps her fingers inside her. Lexa is close already— so close. Body shaking, haggard gasps sucked into her lungs as she draws up, back bowing and legs quivering, cunt clenching and squeezing Clarke’s fingers. Clarke sits up but doesn’t stop the movement of her hand. Waits until Lexa’s right there on that edge, seconds away from being flung off. Then— she stops.

Lexa’s eyes fly open, brow creased and lips already forming her protests. Clarke just looks at her. Allows a split second for Lexa to recognize the rage burning in her eyes. And then she hits her, hard, fist rapping sharply against her skull, and knocks her clean out.

Clarke shakes her left hand to soothe the sting while she pulls her right free from inside Lexa, sloppy and wet. She blows out a breath, looking up to the ceiling and shuddering hard as she pulls the dildo out of herself, gingerly with her inner muscles holding it so greedily. She flops it down onto Lexa’s stomach and groans as she rolls off the bed and heaves herself to her feet, legs wobbling slightly beneath her. 

“God,” she mutters, face screwed up as she stretches and groans again. She’s not sure her body has ever simultaneously felt so good and so wrecked at the same time. Utterly sore from the fight and the fucking, and utterly bone-limp and pleasurably aching from the orgasms. Jesus. She’s not sure she’s ever come so hard in her life. She really doesn’t know if she wants to kill Lexa or shake her hand. As it is now, she looks down at her prone form and can’t help but lick her lips, because _damn_. She can't reconcile the images in her head. The Commander. Decked out in all black save for a red cape, hair in intricate braids, warpaint streaking down her face, exuding power as cold as her unblinking gray eyes. Lexa Woodward. Swallowed up in soft sweaters, hair loose and wavy, green eyes patient and warm. The fury that storms within her is overshadowed only by the _want_. The _need_. That, more than anything, is unsettling. 

Clarke finds Lexa’s clothes scattered around the room, plucking them up and slipping them on as she goes; they’re a bit long on her legs and tight on her chest, and the bra doesn’t fit at all. Just to be petty, she scoops up the leather jacket crumpled on the floor next to the bed and pulls it on. She dips into the bathroom for a moment to appraise herself. She’s a mess, but the red lipstick she steals off the bathroom counter helps. Especially when she writes _“fuck you!”_ in bold letters across the mirror before pocketing it and heading toward the bedroom door. 

It’s there that she pauses before her exit, gaze drawn to Lexa once more. She crosses the room to her. She takes the dildo off Lexa’s stomach and puts it into Lexa’s hand instead, wrapping long fingers around it as best she can with Lexa’s state of unconsciousness and then wiping the sticky wetness of her own fingers off on the sheets. 

“Those orgasms saved your life,” she murmurs, smirking as she presses a kiss to Lexa’s temple, sure to leave behind a perfectly visible lipstick stain. She leaves another on her throat. As a warning. Whispers, “If I see you again, you’re dead.”

Then she leaves, ignoring the inclination to look back one more time at her biggest enemy, naked and spent. 

* * *

Lexa wakes with a headache so unbearable it takes her a minute to place what the hell is going on. The last thing she remembers is Clarke riding her through the mattress, and then— 

And then— 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

Lexa clenches her hands into fists, and that’s how she realizes she’s somehow holding the dildo in one of them— the dildo she’d last seen buried in Clarke’s cunt. She drops it, lets it roll off the bed to bounce onto the floor, and manages to haul herself up to sit on the edge of the mattress. She gingerly prods at the side of her head and her fingers come away black with her blood. Nostrils flaring and teeth grinding as she clenches her jaw, she closes her eyes and urges her blood to heal the injury. She drags herself to her feet next, sways unsteadily and has to reach out to lean against the nightstand so she doesn’t fall back again, and that’s how she notices the lack of her clothes on the floor— such as her leather jacket. When Lexa manages to stagger into the bathroom to better observe her injury, there’s a note waiting for her in the mirror, along with a bright red stamp right there on her face. Right there on her _throat_ , where Clarke easily could have slit it.

Lexa spits out a curse, slamming her fist against the counter, and spins around to storm back into her bedroom. Clarke could have killed her then— that much is obvious. That all of this serves as both a warning and a _fuck you._

Clarke literally left Lexa with her dick in her hand. 

And she took her favourite fucking jacket. 

Lexa’s going to _kill_ her— even if it’s the last thing she does.

* * *

This is inspiration for Clarke/Wanheda in this fic. This art was done by [@thebitterone](https://thebitterone.tumblr.com/tagged/the-100-fanart). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: mentions of blood, some minor violence, Clexa are enemies so they have a battle, and...I don't know what to call it? Consensual sexual torture that's not really torture? They have sex (fairly vanilla sex), Clarke is tied up, a dildo moved with psychokinesis is involved, and it's entirely consensual. 
> 
> I hope you liked this. I do have other scenes written out if anyone is interested in me continuing this. If you are, please let me know what you liked about it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you are all staying safe and this was a nice distraction of sorts from the mayhem of the past week.
> 
> Since people seem to enjoy this I will be working on another chapter since I have alot of free time now. Stay safe.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is...compelling. She can admit that. The back and forth. Right now, Clarke is the mouse. Lexa is the cat.
> 
> And she can’t wait to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I'm posting this a tad later than I meant to. Oh well.
> 
> Youse all convinced me. I suppose I'll write more of this universe. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Shoutout to my pals for reading and encouraging. Lil described this chapter/Clexa's dynamic as a whole in this fic as: "They sort of have this... "fuck you, no fuck YOU" quality that invariably leads to "God I want to fuck you" more often then not" and I love that.
> 
> I don't really have any warnings for this chapter, aside from your basic smut.

_**Text from Unknown Number 3:14am**  
_ _Thanks for the jacket. Fits me perfectly_

_**Text from Lexa 7:52am**  
_ _I’m going to enjoy killing you._

* * *

There are so many things Lexa knows about Clarke Griffin.

She knows she works at Polis News as a photographer. She’s not a morning person. She takes both her tea and her coffee with outrageous amounts of sugar and milk. She hates the rain. The extent of her artistic talent extends to shaky paintings when she was a teenager. She has no family; she never knew her father and her mother died years ago after a stroke. In her spare time, she enjoys murder, mayhem, and making Lexa’s life a living hell.

The problem, of course, lies in the fact that now Lexa has to rethink everything, and she has no idea what is the truth and what is the lie (save for that last bit, which is most definitely the truth).

A muscle in her jaw twitches as she scrolls through endless web pages on the laptop she’d had Gustus bring along with a new set of clothes. Clarke had left her as bare as this safe house, which had been stripped clean by Titus after the last interrogation. She used to have spare clothes here, until she decided to move everything into another safehouse since she’d used this one long enough. Lovejoy was supposed to be her last foray here for some time. Leave it to Clarke Griffin to ruin her plans. 

It was humiliating to have to call Gustus for such matters, but better he than Titus. Gustus, at least, did not so much as raise a brow when Lexa answered the door with a scowl, clutching the bedsheet wrapped around herself; he merely wordlessly offered her the neatly folded clothes she’d instructed him to bring, and then headed into the kitchen to make her some breakfast. Would she have called Titus, he would have asked questions, and if she answered them, never have let her hear the end of it, and probably would insist she immediately put out bounties to kill Clarke. Lexa doesn’t want that. No, she’s going to do it herself.

Clarke is hers to kill.

Now she just has to do it, but there’s only one problem: Clarke Griffin is a ghost. 

She shouldn’t be— birth records show that is indeed her real name. But that’s where it stops. Clearly she has a coder on her side, because there’s nothing online that indicates who she is. Broaching through Polis News’s security is easy enough, but there’s little information on Clarke. No listed family. No indication as to Clarke’s lineage and past. No high school, no previous employment records. Nothing.

Lexa supposes she shouldn’t be annoyed by this. It’s not a surprise. Of course Wanheda would cover her tracks; that’s what kept her operational the past several years. If she’d been easy to track, she would have been dead a long time ago. 

She exhales a sigh that sounds more like a groan, scrubbing her hand over her face as she snaps her laptop shut. She’s had a splitting headache since she woke up— since Clarke knocked her out. The thought alone has rage simmering in her gut, and something perhaps akin to humiliation, which just infuriates her even more. 

She’s interrupted when Gustus’s hulking frame appears in the doorway. “Breakfast is ready.” Lexa nods and sets the laptop aside, following him into the kitchen and sliding into a seat at the bar. Watches in silence as Gustus moves comfortably around her kitchen, the platinum metal of his left arm glinting in the bright kitchen lights. He sets a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of food before her. Lexa grasps her fork, moodily stabbing at the delicate omelette. 

Gustus waits until she is halfway finished before his heavy slavic accent breaks the silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Chews, stewing it over. 

“Don’t tell Titus. I don’t want to hear his opinions on the matter.”

Gustus says nothing, merely blinks at her, which Lexa knows translates as _‘you know I hate that little prick anyway.’_ Or perhaps that’s only something Anya would say when she was alive. Gustus had always tolerated him. Anya had vocally disagreed with him the most. Titus hadn’t bothered hiding his disdain toward the two of them, either. 

Lexa supposes in a way, the Coalition had felt like a natural progression of her role as Commander because she’s already been juggling conflict for years anyway, thanks to the three of them raising her.

“I captured Wanheda last night,” Lexa says finally, face like stone as she rotates her fork in her hand, slow and methodical. 

For the first time, Gustus betrays his emotions, bushy brows rising infinitesimally before drawing together, his eyes narrowing in confusion, trying to connect to dots as to why Lexa would have captured Wanheda and then called him to bring her clothes the next morning. His brows rise again. 

“I do not understand,” he says haltingly. “Where is she? Is she dead?”

Lexa takes a long drink of her coffee. “No, she is very much alive. I don’t know where she is now.”

Silence swells between them again. Finally: 

“Did you fuck her?” he asks bluntly. His frown deepens a moment later when Lexa’s eyes flash to him as she sets down her cup. “I apologize. It is not my place.”

“No, it’s not.” Lexa exhales slowly. “But yes, I did.”

“Lexa.”

She swivels her fork around, ignoring the uncomfortable lurch in her stomach. 

“This is not like you.”

Lexa finally looks up at the uncharacteristic concern in Gustus’s voice. She hates the wriggle of guilt that trickles, hot and creeping, up her spine. Gustus has been, for all intents and purposes, somewhat happy this past year. More often than not he was all smiles and jokes— such a stark contrast to the Gustus she grew up with, stoic and silent, but for the first time in his difficult life he’d been able to do something he loved. He had opened up a restaurant and it seemed to fill whatever void he’d been missing in life; he was so different it made Lexa wish more than anything she could have seen Anya’s reaction to it, and she wished Gustus could have done all this before she died. 

But now there isn’t a trace to be seen of that smile. His tattooed face is lined with grim solemnity and undisguised disquiet. Doubt. Lexa doesn’t like that; it has her hackles rising in an instant.

“I’m handling it.”

Gustus shakes his head, frown just deepening. “What even happened? How did this happen? Are you— did she—”

“It was consensual.” Lexa twitched a shoulder in lieu of a shrug she didn’t feel anywhere near casual enough to actually commit. “I don’t know, it just happened.

Gustus stares at her. "It just happened."

“Yes.”

She can see all the gears spinning in his head, trying to figure out a way to pry more information out of her, something to make this all make sense. Good luck to him. Lexa’s been trying to make sense of it herself. He tries a different tactic. 

“I didn’t think you’d be one to cheat on your girlfriend.” 

Lexa sets her jaw, hating the flare of heat to her cheeks, picking up her mug to take another drink to hide it. 

“The girlfriend is fake, remember.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

She most certainly does. Lexa’s not going to say that. She won’t be saying anything about any of that, because it’s infuriating and mortifying and she wants to deal with this on her own, and the more people know Wanheda’s true identity, the less chances Lexa has at being the one to deliver the killing blow. “I’ve killed more people than I can count and it’s the possible adultery you’re concerned with?”

“Killing is easy. Uncomplicated,” Gustus dismisses. “Affairs are not.” _You have no idea,_ she thinks, but then he says, “Clearly, considering this entire situation.”

“Clearly,” says Lexa dryly.

Another pregnant pause, while Gustus’s brow just further furrows as his scowl carves out his beard. “I’m having difficulty understanding this, Heda. You...with _Wanheda? How?_ And you’re both still alive? Did you discover her identity, are you going to find her? Are you still going to kill her? What-"

“Gustus,” Lexa breathes, a step away from a groan as she drags her hand over her face, holding for just a moment before sweeping her hair back and sighing again. “That’s far too many questions for this early in the morning.” She scoots her chair back and stands up. Her head is still throbbing, not so much from the injury, which has long healed, but rather the nature of Gustus’s questions...and the fact that Lexa completely understands his concern. She needs to take care of this, and quickly.

“Are you _safe?”_ Gustus insists, thick brows knitted and eyes filled with worry. “Does she know your identity, Lexa? Can she get to you?”

Normally, Lexa wouldn’t falter. Normally, lying came to her as easily as breathing

But at those words, Lexa stalls, breath hitching as memories swarm unbidden to the forefront of her mind. Clarke. Wanheda. _Can she get to you?_

She’s already been under her skin from the moment Lexa looked into those electric eyes and realized who they belonged to. Perhaps, if she’s being honest with herself, even before then, since the moment she heard whispers of Wanheda’s name, years ago when the city was in an uproar, destabilized since the death of Arkadia years prior and further shaken by the sudden loss of Spacewalker, their promising new hero and Lexa’s latest headache. When the Natblida were at the height of their era, swarming through the city like a plague, and Nia of the Azgeda was reaping all the benefits. When Lexa saw her from a distance, over a devastating battleground littered with both corpse and fighting soldier alike, in the north western district that is now known as the Dead Zone, and she spotted her through the smoke and fire, and all Lexa could smell and taste and feel was the blood in the air, coating her swords and her skin, and Wanheda stood across the way, still like a ghost, and stared right back at Lexa before disappearing before her very eyes. 

Something about her has always crawled beneath and lingered, like a rot, beneath Lexa’s skin. Knowing that Clarke, the annoying blonde photographer who surprisingly turned out to be a pleasant date, is Wanheda? It’s no longer shocking. It makes sense, oddly enough. But it’s still aggravating, and the most disconcerting thing about this entire situation is how much Lexa is enjoying it. For years she’s been tired for so long, and this thing with Clarke is exciting, refreshing. Something new and rewarding in ways nothing else has been. She’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t...invigorated, by the challenge. It’s not that she hasn’t been dealing with challenges already— she’s been balancing a precocious alliance between Others, after all, on top of hunting down Azgeda and Maunon while dealing with the supers. But that was tiresome and draining. This is...compelling. She can admit that. The back and forth. Right now, Clarke is the mouse. Lexa is the cat.

And she can’t wait to eat.

_Can she get to you?_

Not if Lexa gets to her first.

“Heda, if she knows your identity we must move quickly.” Gustus’s voice is low, urgent. “Who is she? Let me send word and we can—”

Lexa raises a hand and Gustus falls silent at once. 

“I told you. I am handling it.”

Gustus just looks at her for a long moment, and the way he studies her reminds Lexa of when she first met him as a gangly child too big for her own skin, too strong for her own good. That shadow of doubt in his eyes. It’s always been there, despite his neverending claims that he has all the faith in the world in her. Lexa can’t remember a time where she wasn’t resentful of it. But like always, she swallows it down, holds her head eye and coolly returns his regard, and Gustus finally nods, head bowed in deference.

“Yes, Heda.”

But then he makes no move to leave and continues standing there expectantly. Lexa raises a brow.

“I’m afraid I have more news that will further spoil the morning.”

With that Gustus walks past Lexa, out of the kitchen and into the living room, where he grabs the television remote and turns it on. It’s already on a news station, and almost immediately Lexa is greeted with a video of a man she hates. Everything about him is arrogant, from the relaxed line of his shoulders to the slick hair to the scarred smirk. Cage Wallace is surrounded by his people, being led out of a courthouse closely guarded by his right hand man Carl Emerson, cameras flashing on all sides of him, and even though Lexa anticipated this she still finds herself digging her hands hard into the back of the couch she grips as she leans up against it.

Cage Wallace has been released, after no evidence of wrongdoing was found, and all witnesses mysteriously withdrew their claims.

_Of course._

Of course the richest man in Polis would walk free only a week after his factory, full of the synthetic drug Red that’s been making rounds through the city for years now, blew up under mysterious circumstances that included a sighting of the villain Wanheda fleeing the scene. 

“He’ll get what is coming to him,” Gustus says darkly. He glances at Lexa now, uneasily. “After Wanheda?”

Wanheda, after all, caused this whole mess. _Clarke_ caused this. 

Lexa nods in confirmation, ignoring the way Gustus relaxes. Ignoring the way her heart thuds at his words, excitement flaring hot and heady in the pit of her stomach. She and Gustus ready themselves, locking up the safe house before slipping into the disguised car hidden in the underground garage. Okay then. Lexa’s current to-do list: Finding and killing Clarke. Getting her jacket back. Hunting down Roan and probably killing him too. Killing Cage and all his people to put the mountain out of business once and for all. And then…

Then perhaps Lexa can finally take a breath. It’s too soon to think of the after part. After everything that needs to be done is done. After all the rats that were smoked out of the burning mountain were exterminated. After the remaining Azgeda were caught and killed. After Wanheda is destroyed and no longer a thorn in Lexa’s side.

It’s also oddly refreshing to feel...known. For her entire life, the same handful of people knew her true identity. It’s been half a dozen years since anyone new was brought into the fold, and certainly not an enemy. But now Clarke knows— and she’s not going to be revealing it anytime soon, because Lexa knows exactly who she is, too. This is personal.

She’s certain that at this very moment, Clarke is making plans. Trying to figure out more about Lexa; learning how to hit her. Thinking about her possibly right now, at this very moment.

Gustus talks about Cage as they drive back together, but Lexa tunes it out, her mind whirring as she thinks about Clarke. The idea of having to deal with Cage and his people again is headache-provoking, but finding Clarke?

As Lexa said. She's _enjoying_ this part.  
  


* * *

 _  
 **Text from Lexa: 10:52am**  
_ _I suppose this means I should cancel our lunch date._

_**Text from Clarke: 10:57am**  
_ _May I suggest a healthy serving of fuck you  
_ _Found at the nearest dumpster_

* * *

It’s pouring rain. Because of course it is. 

Clarke tucks her head down, ducking beneath her umbrella as best she can as she makes her way down one of the narrow streets leading to the most ramshambled areas of Polis. The roads are more puddles than pavement, glinting with the reflection of the neon city lights, and Clarke weaves her way around them until she finally reaches the battered old flat complex tucked beneath a rail line. She punches in a code and frowns when the system merely beeps and flashes red, even after her third attempt. So they’ve changed it. She sighs and closes her eyes as she stands there for a moment, and the rain patters overhead on her umbrella. Of course she’ll have to do this the hard way. 

Or maybe not. She turns at the sound of a car pulling up to the building; a man climbs out of a taxi, offering Clarke a politely indifferent smile as he walks past her up the drive. She watches him in interest, pretending to be observing the bright yellow briefcase he carries rather than watching the numbers he punches in. She waits until he’s long disappeared into the complex before she inputs the same numbers and lets herself into the lobby. 

She shakes out her umbrella, nose wrinkled in distaste as the droplets scatter all over the linoleum floor. It’s been a while since she was here, at least a couple of years, but it looks the same. Shabby and depressing. Years ago, there used to be a security guard dozing at the front desk; now it sits abandoned. No one cares about protecting a shitty flat complex like this.

The elevator doesn’t work and probably never will again, so she takes the stairs, ignoring the way she leaves water dripping behind her where someone could easily slip and fall. She walks down the hallway some distance before coming to a stop in front of a chipped and battered yellow door, pauses to listen; after she catches a familiar voice, she takes a breath before lifting her fist to rap on the door. The noise beyond it is immediately muffled, a television paused and voices murmuring before footsteps approach. Clarke straightens her shoulders as the door swings open to reveal a slim man with a shock of dark hair, wearing a ratty gray t-shirt half tucked into loose, worn sweatpants.

“Hey Monty.”

“Clarke,” he says blankly, mouth hanging open as he takes in the sight of her, standing in his doorway. His dark eyes glance from her to the man sitting some distance behind, slice of pizza paused on the way to his mouth as he curiously takes the two of them in. “Um. Hi. Hang on.”

He walks forward, gesturing for Clarke to join him in the hallway; she does so without a word, and waits for him to close the door and face her. It takes him a moment, and when he does, it’s with a knitted forehead. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Clarke raises a brow, crossing her arms below her chest. “I have to have a reason to visit an old friend?”

Monty’s expression doesn’t shift, lips set in a thin, grim line. Clarke huffs.

“Fine. I need you to look someone up for me.”

There’s a pregnant pause as Monty shifts his weight from one leg to another, looking down at the floor. “Clarke, you know...you know I don’t do that stuff anymore.”

“I know. But I thought maybe you could do it just one more time. For me.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Just once more, Monty. For real this time.” 

He still won’t look at her. His frown has deepened. He rubs the back of his neck. “I saw you on the news last week. The mountain…”

“Shut up,” says Clarke abruptly, voice low; Monty’s gaze snaps to her and he jumps about a foot into the air when she leans toward him, but it’s only to whisper, “You know there are ears everywhere, don’t talk about it. Not here.”

She can practically see what he wants to say reflecting in his eyes; the distrust there, the reluctant resentment and judgment. _Convenient_ , she can imagine him saying. Once upon a time, they were close enough he would say that. Not anymore.

He looks down again and takes in a deep breath, thin shoulders rising and falling, and Clarke fights not to let her brow furrow, fights to shake off the insistent, nagging guilt before it can creep up on her. 

“Look, I’m serious. One more favor and that’s it, I’m done. I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

It’s not the first promise she’s ever made him. He knows that. But he still looks up, meets her eyes and frowns harder than ever before finally nodding and twisting the doorknob.

“Raven won’t be happy,” he warns her as she steps past him into the small studio apartment. 

“Raven doesn’t need to find out about this.” She makes sure the threat is discernible. Monty gets the message, and says nothing more about her as he leads her to the computer desk crammed in the corner and clears off the empty cans of energy drinks and fast food wrappers. It looks like he lives in this area. The whole apartment smells overwhelmingly of weed.

“Who’s your friend?” slurs the man still sitting on the floor between the couch and coffee table, lost among the half-empty pizza boxes and empty bottles surrounding him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” says Monty shortly.

The man scoffs before throwing down his half-eaten slice and grasping the bottle next to him instead, chugging it down fast enough Clarke is impressed despite herself; Monty is unphased, focused on the computer he’s booting up. His fingers fly over the keyboard as he logs into screen after screen until finally he looks up expectantly at Clarke, but Clarke casts a wary glance at the man slumped over the coffee table.

“He’s cool,” Monty says, “He’s with me.”

Clarke’s narrowed gaze lingers on the man for another moment; he seems on his way to passing out, anyway. If Monty trusts him, he’s okay. 

“Lexa,” she says, “Lexa Woodward. Or— Alexandria Woodward, I guess.”

Monty frowns. “The millionaire?”

Clarke exhales. A couple months ago, that would have been the simplest way to describe her. When she was just an entitled, stubborn stick in the mud, making what was supposed to be a simple job of photographing an event far more difficult than it had to be; when Lexa swept around the second tallest building in Polis, the legendary Woodward Enterprises, and practically reeked of wealth. But then Clarke had dug her way under her skin and softened her. Then, the small smile Clarke could wring out of her was compelling, and more civilized conversation proved that Lexa was surprisingly down to earth, so much so that you could almost forget she was one of the richest people in Polis. 

Of course, now both of those previous impressions are gone. Now Clarke thinks of her and remembers the way she stood in that abandoned cathedral, garbed head to toe in black leather, blood coating her skin, eyes piercing from the warpaint surrounding them. The mere memory has Clarke’s nostrils flaring.

“That’s the one.”

“Okay, wait,” Monty says, closing his eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose, “Tell me you’re not going to— Clarke, you can’t kill her. She’s a philanthropist, do you even know how much good she’s done? Every year she donates millions to like, every charity in Polis. I don’t even think she’s ever had a scandal. She’s a good person.”

Clarke resists the urge to scoff. If only he knew. 

“I’m not going to kill her,” Clarke calmly lies, thinking up another on the spot because she knows Monty isn’t going to give her any information at all if he even slightly suspects her intentions. “I’m going to protect her.”

Monty doesn’t bite. He stares at her, eyes hard and distrustful. Clarke wants to roll her eyes. 

“I’m following a lead and I think some people— Cage’s people— _do_ want to hurt her. If I can find out more information as to why, it might give me a clue to their next move, and it might just save her life if I can get to them before they get to her.”

Monty considers her, and Clarke can tell by the crease between his brows that he’s still reluctant, but she waits it out. Sure enough, he eventually nods and swivels back around to face the screen once more, tapping away at the keyboard.

“Uh,” he says several minutes later. Clarke, who has a hip leaned against the desk and her arms crossed beneath her chest as she waits, straightens up at once at his tone, gaze zeroed in on the computer screen, though all the codes on there tell her little to nothing.

“What is it?”

“I can’t find anything.” 

Clarke slants an incredulous look at him. “ _You_ can’t find anything?”

Monty shakes his head, dark hair flopping over his forehead; he looks as shocked as Clarke feels. “No, it’s— there’s an encrypted firewall I can’t get through.”

She supposes this isn’t a surprise. The Commander has been active for...God, years now, and there’s a reason she hasn’t been caught in all this time. Let alone the fact that Lexa had the funds to ensure the best safety money could buy. But still. Lexa doesn't have a Monty Green; Clarke thought he’d be the ace up her sleeve here. And if Monty couldn’t get in, no one could.

“Hey,” the drunken man suddenly groans from the table; they both look over to see him peeling himself up into a seated position, face screwed up with distaste as he runs a hand over his nearly bald head. “Lighter. I need a lighter, man…”

Monty exhales through his nostrils and looks up at Clarke. “I’ll keep trying, but look. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get through this. Whoever locked her up, they did it tight. I can’t even pull her public records.”

Clarke bites back her disappointment and frustration. Nods shortly. “Keep trying then. I appreciate it. For your trouble,” she says, delicately placing down the crisp note she pulled from her pocket.

Monty looks disgusted. “I don’t need your money, Clarke.”

Clarke glances around his crappy apartment, and Monty scoffs, further offended. She sighs. “Can you blame me?"

He answers that for her a second later.

He just shakes his head as he ushers her toward the door, and even has the audacity to reach forward to cram the crumpled note into her jacket pocket. “You have blood on your hands,” he says, and Clarke’s expression shutters in a heartbeat but he doesn’t care, stepping back to grasp the door, “And I want nothing to do with it.”

He shuts it in her face, and she lets him.

It was the least she could do, really.

She stands in the narrow hallway for a moment. The lone dim bulb hanging unprotected from the ceiling flickers and casts warped shadows on the tacky walls. It illuminates peeling numbers next to another shabby door just down the hall. Clarke walks over to and listens carefully; when she hears nothing, she goes as far as pressing her ear to it just to be safe. Nothing again.

A healthy amount of dust clouds the air when she kicks it in. She pokes her head out to make sure no one would be coming to investigate the commotion, but as she expected, no one does. That’s the good thing about this shitty side of town. No one bats an eye.

The apartment is empty, probably due to the black mold that crawls along the ceiling above the broken kitchen sink. This place is due repairs it’ll never afford.

It’s perfect for her. 

She returns later with her bag, and settles the deal with a thick wad of cash she hands to the landlord, a tall stooping man with a beer belly she finds sleeping in his office. A shiny golden key and the place is hers. She spares only a moment to mourn the loss of her old place; she had to abandon it the moment she escaped from Lexa’s safe house. She buys a cheap mattress and hauls it up herself until a tenant steps out of his own apartment on the same floor and she has to pretend to be struggling beneath its weight, faking a sweet smile when the tenant rushes to help her and politely sidestepping his efforts to flirt with her.

Once she finally settles in, she gets to work. 

If Monty couldn’t hack into information on Lexa, no one can. But that doesn’t mean Clarke can’t take what she already knows about her and use it to her advantage. And there are certain things most everyone knows about Lexa Woodward.

Everyone knows her parents were killed when she was a child, and she returned from boarding school years later to shoulder the burden of running her parents’ fortune all on her own before she was even old enough to drive. Despite her age, she kept up with the competition and managed to keep Woodward Enterprises strong, maintaining her status as one part of the Polis Trifecta— Woodward Enterprises, Mount Weather, and Eligius Corp, the three biggest corporations that dominated that city. All that work left little time for play...Lexa didn’t seem to have any friends at all; Clarke certainly hadn’t heard her mention anyone in the time they’d known one another. She really didn’t mention much of substance at all, actually. Clarke’s fingers pause over her keyboard, laptop screen frozen over an article about the upcoming gala where the company would celebrate its hundredth year as a multinational conglomerate that has single-handedly changed the landscape of Polis for the better.

The article has a picture accompanying it, one Clarke herself took, and she realizes there _is_ someone Lexa cares for at least to some degree. The only person she seemed to ever speak fondly of was the CEO of Woodward Enterprises, Ms Indra Pine. Clarke had met her several times. She was stoic and no-nonsense, but she clearly respected Lexa, and Lexa clearly respected her…

Hm.

Well. Clarke looks out the window through the rips and openings in the tacky beige blinds; it’s still pissing it down outside, and it’s getting late. She shuts her laptop and lays back, wriggling around until she’s comfortable on her cheap mattress and even cheaper sheets. Pillows her arms behind her head and stares up at the cracked plaster of her ceiling. The whole apartment shudders as a train moves through the area. 

She wonders if Raven would have been able to help her find info on Lexa, or even just help her convince Monty to do more digging. Clarke won’t ask her. She can’t, anyway. Raven is done with her. It’s crazy to think, considering everything that’s gone on, but it’s been only a week since Clarke’s date with Lexa, and the subsequent argument with Raven after she interrupted. Clarke sucks in a breath and her cheeks puff out as she exhales it, a long, deep sigh, as the memory comes creeping back.

* * *

Clarke walks into the living room on shaky legs, heart pumping hard in her chest. She’s distracted, head spinning. Can still feel the ghost of Lexa’s touch all over her— inside her. It’s... disconcerting, to say the least. Dating Lexa was supposed to be convenient. It was never supposed to be...She was never supposed to…

Well. She just definitely hadn’t anticipated _that_ being so _good_.

Maybe she should have. Lexa was a competent person, after all. Clarke had watched the way she moved around her offices in the building she owned with ease, how her employees seemed to both respect and fear her. She clearly hits the gym often enough— that much was obvious from the times she wore a sleeveless top, lean muscles on display. And then she had those full, pouty lips, and those long fingers...Clarke shivers at the mere memory, arousal pooling down low again, and further irritation at Raven stirring up for interrupting them.

She walks down the hallway feeling better than she can remember feeling in years, honestly. Limbs loose and heavy. She basks in it, untouched even by Raven’s stormy expression as she finally joins her in the living room.

“Were you actually just on a fucking date?” 

And just like that, the afterglow is fully vanished.

“Am I not supposed to do that?” Clarke asks sarcastically; she takes the hint from Raven, who is standing in her living room rather than sitting in one of the recliners, and crosses her arms beneath her chest, leaning against the back of the kitchen counter.

Raven glares at her for a moment longer before pulling a folded up piece of paper from her jacket pocket and practically throwing it into Clarke’s hands. “Here. Any chance you’re going to tell me what this is for?”

Clarke casts a cursory glance over the scratchy writing before folding it up and slipping it into her own pocket, shaking her head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, I probably don’t.” Raven says it harshly, enough vitriol in her voice to let Clarke know she’s frothing at the mouth for a fight. Exhaustion seeps into Clarke’s bones, the last of the weary contentment Lexa spread through her melting away. “Are you really not going to mention it?”

“There’s nothing to mention.”

“You’re _unbelievable.”_

Clarke ignores the outrage in Raven’s voice, lightly shrugging instead. “I know.”

“Not fucking funny, Clarke. How can you— how can you act like nothing has happened?” Clarke finally frowns, looking over at her, and Raven appears both furious and devastated, forehead knit and upper lip curled. “I _know_ what you just did. I saw it all over the news. I know it was you.” Clarke says nothing, just stares at her. Raven’s scowl carves deeper. “What, you have nothing to say? Typical." 

Clarke sighs. “I don’t know why you do this.” 

“I don’t know why _you_ do this!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Are you kidding me? Look at everything you’ve done! Abby is heartbroken and you don’t even care! Hell, I’m heartbroken and you don’t even—”

“He died years ago, Raven,” Clarke says harshly, ignoring the thickness of her voice. “Get over it.”

“Died? _Died_? _You_ _killed_ him, I had to break into the police department just to steal his body! Do you even know the amount of tests they would have subjected him to, Clarke? And you didn’t even care!”

“I was fucked up, okay? I was in shock.”

“Don’t act like that was the first person you killed.”

That draws Clarke up short. She stares at Raven, stone-faced, before finally uttering: “You knew?”

Raven gives a derisive scoff. “Of course I knew. Finn told me everything. Why do you think we tried to keep you home so much? You were a risk to us all. But you had your dad and Abby...we thought you could be, I don’t know, fixed.”

“...fixed?”

“Rehabilitated. Whatever. We thought we could fix you. Clearly we saw how that worked out.”

Bile rises in Clarke’s throat, along with an anger that flushes her skin. She pushes away from the counter, both fists and teeth clenched.“Fuck you.”

“Fuck _you!_ You don’t get to be the victim here. You’re a _murderer_ , Clarke! Actually you’re a- you’re a fucking psycopath, you took down that whole damn mountain! There were _kids_ in there.” Clarke’s throat draws tight and her shoulders stiffen, but Raven doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy shaking her head in disgust. “You’re— you’re fucked up. I don’t even know if there is any hope for you.”

That’s it.

Clarke slams Raven back against the wall, one hand on her throat, a knife to her jugular. 

“Say one more word,” she says, voice dangerously mild. “I dare you. Say one more fucking word, Raven.”

She’s not going to kill her. Because it’s Raven, and despite how she’s treated her over the years...it’s Raven. She’s become family, for better or for worse. Not to mention what it would do to Abby to lose her adopted daughter. 

But still. Clarke digs the knife just a little bit deeper into Raven’s neck, relishing in her angry cry tearing loose from clenched teeth. A bead of holly-red blood appears, and it compels Clarke to release Raven, who immediately jumps a hand to her throat and looks up at Clarke like she hates her.

“I wanted to be a hero,” admits Clarke, by all appearances cold despite the turmoil surging in the pit of her stomach. “You— none of you ever even gave me a chance.”

“Because you’re _not_ a hero!” Raven hurls at her, voice nearly guttural at this point. “Why don’t you understand that, why can’t it get through your thick skull? Jesus, Clarke. You _like_ killing people! You like punishing them, you like taking things into your own hands and snuffing out their light, you get off on it or something, and I know you might not have wanted it to be that way but that _is_ who you are, and we all knew that, even Wells knew that, but you seem to be the only one who doesn’t get it!”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting justice,” Clarke snaps, twisting the dagger in her hand in agitation, trying to ignore the way Raven’s words won’t stop reverberating inside her, echoing, aching. “You don’t understand. I _watched it happen_ , Raven. Do you know what it does to you? To watch the people you loved die before you. My dad was ripped apart on live television.” Torn to pieces, machinery holding each of his limbs and ripping, twisting. His blood rained below; her father’s friends had to sweep it away with water from the fire hydrant. “Wells had his throat cut right in front of me.” His fingers were cut off first, then his throat split. He had choked on his own blood, hand and remaining fingers scrabbling at his throat, eyes wheeling as he gargled and sputtered. And she had to watch it all. A tiny, unwavering assassin before her, small and slight enough to most certainly be a child. And she still hadn’t found them yet. 

“Yes, Clarke, you watched that, and that’s horrible, I’m not saying it wasn’t. But you’re also full of shit.” Clarke stills, sour taste in her mouth. “Abby and I have talked about it. She told me you had problems even before all this.”

“You act like I’m some psychopath. I wasn’t one of those fucked up kids who killed random stray cats and tortured the family dog. I just want consequences to exist. I want bad people to be punished.”

“So become a police officer!” Raven nearly yells. “Not a fucking murderer!”

Clarke does roll her eyes now. “Same thing. I just have more anonymity in my line of work.”

“You are literally fucking crazy. Like I can’t even talk to you! You’re nuts!”

“And you’re a self righteous, judgemental asshole. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want justice? Can you imagine the helplessness, watching your loved ones die and never able to make their killers pay?”

“Oh I can, actually.” Raven glares at her, and it sinks into Clarke a moment later. 

“Well I’m right here.” Clarke can’t help the way her shield revs up, starts to light up the room, certain the skull is painting itself onto her face; finds herself annoyed at the lack of satisfaction when Raven’s expression draws tight and she flinches.

But then Raven begins to glow herself, palms bright and fingers curling, the light from her hands throwing her features, twisted with rage and grief, into sharp relief.

“Don’t tempt me,” she says lowly.

Clarke could scoff. She could call out her bluff— because even if Raven did blow the place up, it wouldn’t take Clarke with it, not through her shield. 

But she doesn’t. She relaxes instead, waits until Raven does too before she gives her a sardonic tilt of her lips and slips her knife back into its hidden sheath on the underside of the counter. 

“It’s been great catching up,” she breaks the silence a minute later, when Raven does nothing but stand there looking resentful and resigned. “Give Mum my best.” 

“You’re hopeless,” says Raven dully. She’s no longer even looking at Clarke. She shakes her head as she tightens her jacket around her and heads out without another word. Clarke stays where she is, listening to the sound of her footfalls, then the door shutting. It’s not slammed and that somehow makes it worse. Strains her ears for the distant sounds of her footsteps outside on the pavement, and then...she’s gone.

Clarke deflates at once, turning to plant her elbows on the surface of the counter and lean in, burying her face in her hands. She swallows down the lump threatening to choke her, ignores the exhausted, desperate tears that sting her eyes. 

There’s nothing to be upset over. Stop this, she chastises herself. 

It’s the thing she's the worst at. No matter how she tries not to feel, she just…

Can’t help it.

Her legs wobble, and she gasps quietly. 

* * *

Clarke swallows thickly, blinking the memories away. She rolls over, grabbing her burner off the cheap television tray serving as a nightstand next to her mattress. She opens up her texts from Lexa, the last one being three flipping the bird emojis she’d sent in response to Lexa’s promise to enjoy killing her. Her thumbs hover over the screen; she wants to send something. But she doesn’t know what to say; she doesn’t have the heart to taunt right now.

She tells herself she just wants to be done with this now. Maybe it was fun for a moment. Maybe taunting Lexa, not letting her come and stealing her clothes and leaving those messages- maybe that was fun. Briefly. For a moment. 

(Clarke is _fun_. She can be fun)

But it’s not fun anymore. This is serious. The Commander knows exactly who she is, and while Clarke has very little doubt in Monty’s abilities when he hacked the international database to ensure Clarke was wiped clean from the records, she doesn’t fully trust anyone or anything; Lexa has the resources that if she digs hard enough, eventually, she might find something. Something that indicates who Clarke is, and if she figures that out, she’ll figure out everything— that her father was Arkadia, who her mother is, who Raven is, Monty, the list goes on. And that can’t happen. Despite what the others may think of her, Clarke will always, _always_ protect her people. She won’t let Lexa hurt them.

And she won’t let Lexa hurt anyone ever again. Especially not her. The fact that this woman who Clarke has spent so much time with...has kissed, has touched, has spent too much time thinking about...the fact that _she’s_ the Commander? It’s enough to make her angry. It’s enough to agitate and distract her, to get under her skin— but she tells herself Lexa won’t and cannot.

Clarke has a shield, and nothing gets through it. Nothing can get to her. 

She closes the app and throws the phone back onto the nightstand; it clatters across it and stills just near the edge. Clarke rolls over, punches her pillow into place, and tries to sleep.

* * *

Trikru is a beautiful restaurant. It’s upscale but understated, swathed in red and black decor, and there’s a huge, gorgeous bar wrapped around the back with heavy skillets displayed on the walls above. Candles flicker on each elegant table, and the whole place smells like heavenly, decadent food.

But Clarke isn’t here to eat.

She’s currently seated at a table directly in the center of the open restaurant, the most public and visible location. Indra Pine sits next to her, casually sipping on a glass of dry red wine as she reads through the menu with a slight frown. It’s been awkward, since Clarke picked her up from Woodward Enterprises. Indra isn’t one for small talk, so Clarke didn’t get the chance to butter her up much before stating her claim that Lexa instructed her to pick Indra up so they could take her to dinner. She was also suspicious and impatient by nature, so it took Clarke stating the dinner would be free before she finally relented.

After all, to Indra, what is suspicious about Lexa taking her out to dinner? It’s happened before. Not with Clarke, of course, but they’ve been publicly dating for a while now. Stranger things have happened.

It didn’t take long to get Lexa’s attention, either. Clarke had texted her first, standing in the dimly lit garage not long after five, waiting for Indra to make her way down to her car after the work day. Lexa wasn’t in the office today; Clarke had checked. 

“Indra,” Clarke greets warmly, stepping into the light.

To Indra’s credit, the woman doesn’t so much as startle. She looks up, the surprise wiped clean from her eyes in an instant, and her typical frown immediately creases her brow upon spotting Clarke. “Ms Griffin,” she says in response, stiff but polite. “Surely Lexa told you she was taking a personal day today?”

“Oh she did,” Clarke lies easily. “She might not have told you the reason, though.” When Indra merely looks at her, unimpressed and with her usual air of no-nonsense, Clarke smoothly continues on, arms clasped before her. “We want to take you out to dinner.”

Again, Indra just stares at her. 

“I hope you didn’t have any other plans,” continues Clarke, convincingly stumbling her words as though second-guessing herself. “Lexa said there’s a special occasion.”

The lines on Indra’s foreheads deepen, and she says nothing again, for so long Clarke starts to think perhaps this won’t be as easy a plan as she thought— but then Indra says slowly, “Hmm, it is nearly my ten year anniversary with the company...but that’s not until next week.”

“She got us reservations for a really nice place,” Clarke says, trying to think of one of the more high-end restaurants in Polis. She remembers one Lexa mentioned before. “At Trikru! This was the only opening though, they’re pretty booked up.”

“Trikru,” echoes Indra, frown fading as she purses her lips. “I would imagine she could get in any time there since she knows the owner.” Clarke half shrugs and Indra seems to buy it, preoccupied with a surprise free meal. She tucks her purse— black, compact, sensible— higher up on her shoulder. “Alright then. I’m assuming she sent you on ahead alone for a reason?”

“Yeah, she wanted me to pick you up, she’s going to meet us there.”

They ended up taking Indra’s car rather than a cab, and Clarke spent the drive texting Lexa.

_**Text from Clarke 5:14pm**  
_ _Dinner._

_**Text from Lexa 5:14pm**  
_ _What?_

Text from Clarke 5:15pm _  
__Dinner. Tonight. We should talk._

**_Text from Lexa 5:16pm_ ** _  
__As if I’m going to agree to that.  
_ _The next time I see you, I’m killing you._

Clarke discreetly takes a photo of Indra driving, and sends it to Lexa.

_**Text from Clarke 5:17pm**  
_ _u might want to rethink that._

_**Text from Lexa 5:18pm**  
_ _You abducted my CFO?  
_ _Seriously?_

_**Text from Clarke 5:18pm** _ _  
__I needed leverage._ _  
__Meet us @ Trikru ASAP so we can end this._

_**Text from Lexa 5:18pm** _ _  
__There are ways to break up that don’t involve hostages, you know_

_**Text from Clarke 5:19pm** _ _  
__either she dies or u do_

_**Text from Lexa 5:19pm**  
_ _What makes you think I even remotely care? I can find a new CFO._

Clarke pulls a face at her phone screen. She calls Lexa’s bluff.

_**Text from Clarke 5:20pm** _ _  
__I can do both_

**_Text from Lexa 5:20pm  
_ ** _I swear to God, it’s going to feel amazing when I kill you._

**_Text from Clarke 5:21pm  
_ ** _It’s going to feel amazing when I throw Indra over a bridge and put a bullet into u_

**_Text from Lexa 5:21pm  
_ ** _If you’ve hurt her I’m going to have to hurt you the same way._

It’s so tempting to make a dirty comment. But this isn’t the time to flirt, Jesus. She can’t do what she did in Lexa’s safe house, where she should have killed her and instead— well. This is serious, and dangerous. The Commander is the leader of the Coalition for a reason; she's killed countless people. Clarke needs to be careful or she’ll be added to that list. 

_**Text from Lexa 5:21pm**  
_ _How did you even convince her to do this?  
_ _Did you tell her who I am?_

**_Text from Clarke 5:22pm  
_ ** _I haven’t told her anything  
_ _yet  
_ _don’t make us wait too long_

**_Text from Lexa 5:22pm  
_ ** _I’m on my way. I’m on the other side of town so it’ll be a while._

Clakre leaves it at that, and now here they are. It was easy to get into Trikru; all Clarke had to do was flaunt Lexa’s name and they immediately found them a table, bumping someone else’s reservations off. Their waiter is fairly young- surprising for such a high end restaurant as this. He’s good at his job though, greeting them with a charming smile, tossing his long braided hair over his shoulder with a rogue, boyish air as he smoothly brings their drinks and appetizer out before leaving them to it. They’ve been waiting on Lexa for nearly fifteen minutes now, with Indra working her way through wine and a scallop ceviche Clarke refuses to trust. According to Indra, Lexa knew the owner. Who’s to say she doesn’t ask them to poison Clarke? She’s not risking that.

It isn't long before Lexa arrives, and when she does, it's like the world stop spinning for a moment. That's how furious Clarke is. Every inch of her body burns when she sees her. Lights up like her powers have switched on from the inside out. Her mouth runs dry and she swallows at the lump in her throat before forgetting everything the closer Lexa gets to her.

She looks powerful even as Alexandria Woodward. Her clothes are worth more than Clarke’s entire flat complex, she’s sure. The pale silk button-up blouse with a plunging neckline certainly catches Clarke’s eyes...which promptly narrow because she’s certain Lexa must have unbuttoned it so far down for a reason. But she’s distracted a moment later when her gaze catches on the voluptuous waves of dark hair that tumble over one of Lexa’s shoulders, and the sharp glint in her green eyes as they focus on Clarke with a laser-like intensity. She feels warm all over. Still _burning_.

But she has a part to play right now.

“Babe,” she cheerfully greets, despite the fact that even when they didn’t know who the other was, they’d only been dating a month and certainly didn’t use pet names for one another. She stands up, leaning over to brush a kiss to Lexa’s cheek. Ignores how her heart jumps at the smell of her, how her stomach lurches, simmers. Last time she saw Lexa she’d been inside of her. She'd been so wet and tight clenching around her fingers- 

No.

This isn’t the time.

“How was the drive?” she says warmly, but her smile falters when Lexa looks back at her with a smirk written in her eyes.

“Actually, Marcus drove.”

Clarke blinks. “Marcus?”

Lexa nods and before she can expand, the explanation strolls through the door; evidently he’d trailed behind to park the car. It’s Kane. As in Clarke’s boss and the head of Polis News, Kane.

_What the fuck._

“Hey Clarke!” Kane is beaming as he drapes his jacket over the back of his chair and slips into it. “Let me tell you, Alexandria Woodward showing up at the office to take me out to the best restaurant in Polis wasn’t something I was expecting, but this is a pleasant surprise.” He turns and politely offers a hand to Indra, who looks bemused. “Marcus Kane, I run Polis News. You’re Indra Pine, right? You run Woodward Enterprises.”

“I help manage it, yes,” Indra says a bit stiffly, though she does shake Kane’s hand.

“Do a lot more than that according to Alexandria here,” Kane says good-naturedly. “She says the place would fall apart without you!”

It could be the wine. Either way Indra’s skin flushes darker, and she hides it behind her glass as she takes another sip. 

“Please, call me Lexa,” Lexa says serenely as she pours herself a glass of wine.

“I can do that for you, ma’am,” says their waiter as he appears. He gives a crooked smile when Lexa looks up at him. 

“Artigas! It’s good to see you.”

He beams as he takes over, delicately filling the glass. “How are you? Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Work has been busy.” She lifts a brow, gaze shifting over to Clarke, who has been watching with narrowed eyes. “Have you met my girlfriend? This is Clarke.”

“Of course we met, he’s our waiter,” Clarke deadpans.

“I’m afraid she’s a terrible cook, hence our meal out,” Lexa says sweetly. Clarke shoots her a scowl.

Artigas chuckles. “I think I saw a picture of her in the papers when you guys did that article over the charity,” Artigas sounds shy, a little starstruck. “I can’t believe it took you so long to bring her out here. Gustus was thrilled.”

Clarke notices the way Lexa’s smile turns the slightest bit wooden. That’s interesting. “Was he? Has he been out?”

“Not yet, I can go get him though—”

“No, no,” Lexa says smoothly, and if Clarke wasn’t watching her so closely, she wouldn’t have noticed how quick and insistent it was. “He’s busy, and we need to order. Perhaps we’ll see him later this evening.”

Artigas nods, smiling and adoring, before looking around at them all. “So, are you ready to order?”

They’re distracted for a time as they place their orders, a delighted Kane —who apparently has wanted to dine at Polis’s hottest new fine dining establishment for some time now— taking the longest to decide on a meal. Clarke orders the most expensive thing on the menu without any intentions to actually consume it. 

Lexa will pay for it, but, as Clarke said: she won’t be eating tonight. 

Kane, Indra, and Lexa all indulge in small talk Clarke chimes into every now and then, but she’s admittedly preoccupied. She imagines killing Lexa in the kitchen, cracking her neck and stuffing her body in the freezer— imagines the headlines. Maybe she can push out her shield in the bathroom and leave Lexa nothing but a pile of ash. Maybe she can run her over after they leave.

These are indulgences, of course. Fantasies, all too conspicuous. She’s going to do it quietly, in a private area, where she can hide the body and be long gone by the time anyone discovers it. But first she needs answers- this isn’t only the Commander she's dealing with, this is Alexandria Woodward. The whole purpose of going along with dating her was to keep her close; Woodward Enterprises had been working closely with Mount Weather for some time, after all, Clarke had hoped to gain valuable inside information that way, until everything went to shit in the mountain. Even still. Cage, Emerson, Tsing, Lovejoy, and many of their remaining cronies are walking free now— Lexa could have information that will help her find them.

She’s not as useful to her as dead. Not yet. Clarke realized this after long, long nights imagining all the ways she could kill her.

Dinner is not quite as awkward as it was when Clarke and Indra were alone at the table. Kane makes for easy conversation, and Lexa is a gifted actor, Clarke can acknowledge that. It reminds her that she can’t trust her. She’ll have to be wary even of the information she finagles out of her. 

The chef himself helps Artigas bring their food out. He’s a huge man, broad and towering closer to seven feet than six, with tattoos decorating his bearded face and muscles that bulge even through the long-sleeved shirt, but the chef’s hat, apron, and oven mitts make him look much less ferocious, along with the way he smiles at them all. 

“You’re even more beautiful in person,” he says with a thick accent, bowing his head to Clarke. 

“This is Gus,” says Lexa. Clarke notes the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s the best chef in Polis.”

Gus chuckles, dismissively waving a covered hand. “You flatter me.” Looks at Clarke again and smiles gently. “I hope you enjoy the meal, Ms Griffin.”

“I’m sure I will,” she smiles back. “Thank you. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“And you as well.”

Lexa watches him leave, and Clarke watches Lexa. She smirks when Lexa catches her, murder briefly in her eyes before she blinks it away and smiles sweetly at the rest of the table.

“Enjoy!”

Clarke doesn’t. Lexa isn’t touching her dinner either, though like Clarke, she makes a show of nudging it around on the plate; Kane and Indra are too focused on digging into their own delicious meals. Clarke tried to ignore how her stomach growls; it really does smell inviting.

“So how do you know the chef?” she asks Lexa, loudly enough the other two can easily hear it.

“He was once my personal chef,” Lexa answers.

“Sometimes still is,” Indra says gruffly as she digs into her roasted duck. “Considering how often he drops off lunch for you."

“It’s not very often,” Lexa amends.

“He’s someone you care about then,” Clarke says; she can’t help but smirk again when Lexa reads her angle and shoots her daggers. Then she looks down a moment later, realizing there’s an actual dagger there— one Lexa has discreetly pulled beneath the table, the point pressed to Clarke’s stomach. Clarke’s smirk curls higher. 

She drops a hand just as discreetly, fingers wrapping around Lexa’s slim wrist. Her attempts to twist the dagger out of her deceptively strong grip don’t work. Her heart jumps when she realizes how close Lexa’s hand is to the apex of her thighs; she pushes her arm down, enough that Lexa’s knuckle grazes against her, enough that Lexa realizes exactly what game she’s playing and yanks her hand back.

When Clarke looks over at her, her eyes are darker. The spite has the rage pushing back, and Clarke smirks down at her plate. She looks back up, biting back a snarl, when Lexa kicks her beneath the table. Lexa looks pointedly at her, and then Kane, and Clarke understands her precisely.

_Don’t tempt me; I will kill him._

Clarke pointedly looks at Indra, and a muscle in Lexa’s jaw jumps. 

Indra and Kane are halfway through their plates when Lexa loses her patience.

“Clarke,” Lexa says smoothly, voice as light as the wine she sips. “Could I have a word, please? In private?”

Indra and Kane both look at them in interest, a crease appearing between Indra’s brows while Kane’s own rise up toward his hairline in mild curiosity.

“Of course, darling.” 

They politely excuse themselves, scooting back from the table and standing. Lexa gently takes Clarke’s hand in her own and leads her around the table and across the restaurant. The closer they get to the distant door they’re approaching, the tighter her grip grows. By the time Lexa opens the door and pulls Clarke out into a dark, dingy alleyway, she’s clearly trying to break Clarke’s fingers. Clarke makes to pull away but Lexa tugs her forward as she swings the door shut behind her, and Clarke loosens her grip before Lexa can slam her into the brick wall.

“You are the biggest pain in the arse I’ve ever known,” she snarls, rounding on Clarke at once. Her voice is fairly low; the chatter of the restaurant has been muted to a dull hum, but they’re still only just out a side door. Someone could hear them.

“Back at you!” Clarke hurls back at her. “You kidnapped _Kane?_ I barely know the guy!”

“Why did you have to bring Indra into this? She’s a good employee.”

“Like I give a fuck.”

“What do you _want_ , Clarke? Aside from killing me, which you could have already attempted in a dozen different ways by now.”

Clarke doesn’t wait another moment. She pulls the gun out of the back of her waistband and aims it at Lexa.

* * *

A gun.

How juvenile.

Lexa scoffs. “Oh, please. You think you’re the first person who’s ever aimed a gun at me? Go ahead, shoot. See what happens.”

Blue eyes narrow above the barrel. “First you’re going to tell me something. Woodward Enterprises was looking to become a shareholder in Mount Weather Incorporated. Why?”

“Last I checked you aren’t a board member, Wanheda.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Clarke’s face tightens, as does her handle on the gun. “Do you know what they were up to? Were you helping them?”

Lexa stares at Clarke, weighing her options. Clarke stares back.

“Yes and no,” Lexa says finally, deciding to be truthful. She loses nothing by being honest about this. “I knew they were responsible for Red being packaged and distributed the way it was, but I wasn’t helping them. You already know I’ve been trying to take them down. Feigning a vested financial interest was the perfect ruse to get closer. Dante never allowed it before but his son has pound signs in his eyes. Then you came along.”

“Cage was shite. He wouldn’t have told you anything.

“I would have made him tell me.”

“Why do you think I blew up the whole fucking place?”

Lexa pauses. “You were trying to get to Cage?”

When Clarke doesn’t answer, Lexa’s brow knits together. She tilts her head.

“Clarke.”

No answer, but Clarke actually looks away, her jaw set, something dark and doubtful burning in her eyes.

“Clarke.” Lexa steps forward, ignoring the way Clarke’s eyes snap back to her and her hand tightens around the gun. Lexa’s voice drops as she leans forward. “There were innocent people in the mountain, weren’t there? Why did you take them down with it?”

“I had no choice,” she snaps. The gun trembles. Lexa doesn’t miss it.

“There were children in there.”

“They were all sick.” She snaps the words again, with such finality even Lexa is rendered motionless with surprise, her eyes wide. 

Lexa’s stomach churns at the words. When she speaks, her words are hushed. Filled with dread. “They had the sickness?” 

“Yes. Every single one of them, even- even the babies.” Clarke’s voice breaks on the last word, and her grip on the gun trembles violently.

It’s enough to make Lexa feel sick. For one bizarre moment, she wants to reach out. Wants to touch Clarke in some way- a hand on her forearm, on her waist, on her hand, palms kissing as their fingers entwine and Lexa squeezes to say everything that won’t rise to her lips, dusty apologies she thought she’d long extinguished the impulse to give years and years ago.

But she doesn’t, because she can’t— and in fact every part of her rebels and revolts against the urge, that softness that should be killed by now. Weakness she can’t ever seem to shake. For another insane second, she wants to look over her shoulder to make sure Titus isn’t standing there watching her, summoned by her wretched heart aching in her chest, betraying her.

She doesn’t do that either. Titus isn’t here. There’s nothing but a brick wall behind her.

“So it was a mercy kill.” She states it but it still comes out like a question.

Clarke’s response is immediate; her brows draw together, her nose scrunches up, her upper lip curls in derision. “I don’t do mercy.”

“Then why did you let me live?” Silence follows Lexa’s question. She almost can’t believe she dared to ask it— it’s too tense, too intimate. But she’s been dying to know, so she ventures on. “You had me then. I was unconscious. You could have killed me, even could have captured me and taken your time with it if you wanted it to be slow. But you didn’t. Why?”

“You could have killed me too,” Clarke challenges, brows arching over hard blue eyes. “Why didn’t _you_?”

Lexa doesn’t even have an answer for her. It wasn’t pity, that was for certain. It wasn’t mercy either.

“I suppose I was curious.”

It appears as though Clarke hadn’t expected that answer. She tilts her head. 

“About what?”

Lexa doesn’t respond right away. The words feel stuck in her throat. She hopes she does an adequate job of hiding how her heart pounds with an aloof poker face and a steady hand. 

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

Lexa clenches her jaw, irritation seeping into her. Usually it’s frustrating that Clarke turned out to be Wanheda, but this is where it’s annoying that Wanheda is Clarke. Wanheda is a threat because she’s a rogue enemy who refuses to play by the rules Lexa worked so hard to spell out. Clarke is dangerous because she’s stubborn and relentless and always, always calls Lexa out, whether they’re standing in a dingy office at Woodward Enterprises arguing over the perfect photo spread for the Polis paper or facing each other in a dark empty alley while Clarke has a gun pulled on her.

“You’re such a coward,” Clarke continues when Lexa says nothing. 

Lexa looks at her coldly. “At least _I_ don’t hide behind a mask, Clarke.”

She realizes how it sounds the moment she says it— and honestly, that’s not what she meant. Yes, she dons the Commander’s mask and costume, the warpaint, the clothes. But she was referring to their secret identities. The fact that she _is_ Alexandria Woodward— that she does own her family’s company. Compared to Clarke, pretending to be a photographer at some paper and for...what, exactly?

Clarke scoffs. “Wear a mask? Are you kidding me?” Her glare hardens as though turning to stone, and before Lexa’s very eyes her skin glows even brighter, more opaque, until the unmistakable face of a skull is staring back at Lexa. And she can’t help it— the hitch in her breath, the seize of her heart. 

She doesn’t even consider it, what she’s doing, but she does it anyway. Feels the sting of the skin around her eyes as she pushes the blood to the surface. Watches as Clarke’s expression changes, stormy glare clearing, the lines in her brow disappearing. Her lips part and her eyes widen to blink at Lexa, as though she’s surprised, and Lexa can hear the audible hitch in her breath. Her own glare falters, confused at Clarke’s reaction. And then Clarke advances, crowding Lexa against the wall, and in her surprise- Lexa lets her.

“You can do that too?” Clarke asks, breathing out the words. She looks at Lexa with deep lines in her forehead, eyes an electric blue, face glowing with the skull shape.

Lexa blinks, frowns. “Yes.”

“Why do you put on face paint, then.”

Lexa opens her mouth. Closes it. “...why do you wear a mask when you can make one?”

Clarke stares, and stares. “I don’t know.”

Lexa swallows at her dry throat again. They’re close together; Clarke’s breath is hot on her neck. She’s so close Lexa can count her lashes. So close Lexa can see the reflection of the skull face glow in her wide pupils. 

“I don’t know why I haven’t killed you yet.” Clarke says it quietly. Self-reflectively. As though she’s musing over it. There’s a strange dreamlike quality to her right now that Lexa feels mirrored in her gut, in the heat simmering there; in her heart, beating a fresh tattoo against her rib cage.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed to either of them that they hadn’t kissed. Not since before the discovery of their true identities. 

That thought popping into Lexa’s head makes her angrier than anything. She shoves Clarke away; Clarke stumbles back, blinking rapidly as though she was just as caught up in- in whatever this is or was. 

Clarke is not her equal, and it’s foolish to romanticize this. This isn’t someone that can understand her. This is her _enemy_.

She should leap forward, empty the space between them, and plunge the hidden dagger in her sleeve straight into Clarke’s heart quicker than she can pull her shield up.

She _should_.

But she just stares at her, hate raging hot and insistent in her stomach, her chest. Clarke’s glow begins to fade; the skull mask disappears entirely, leaving behind pink cheeks and blue eyes. Lexa can’t help the way her gaze lingers, soaking it in, before trailing down. Curves. Soft curves on display. Clarke is wearing her jacket, which infuriated Lexa when she first walked into the restaurant, but it’s giving her some strange feelings right now. That persistent warmth grows, burns bright and heady in the pit of her gut.

Fuck.

She’s too slow to recognize it, to pull away. Her eyes are mapping the curve of Clarke’s waist and the fullness of her breasts when Clarke tilts her head, eyes narrowing, darkening. Lips curving. 

_Fuck._

It doesn’t feel like a sinking ship. It feels like one crashing into the rocks during a hurricane.

“I see,” Clarke says, nodding as she reaches back, tucks her gun into her waistband again. 

“You don’t see anything,” Lexa snarls at once, hating the panic in her voice, the urge to to retreat, to run.

“What do you want more?” Clarke licks her lips, visibly barely containing her amusement when Lexa’s gaze darts to it before she drags it away. “You want me to die? Or sit on your face?”

“What the fuck, Clarke.”

“Don’t act like this is a surprise. You’re looking at me like you want to be inside me.”

“My knife inside you, yes.”

Clarke shakes her head; her smirk grows when Lexa automatically takes a step back when she steps forward. “You want to fuck me.”

“Been there, done that.” 

“We haven’t done everything. Not even close.”

_“Clarke.”_

“Lexa.”

She tries another tactic. “Kane and Indra are waiting on us.”

“They can wait a little longer. _You’ve_ been waiting for something for a while now, haven’t you?” Clarke says knowingly. Lexa hates the glint in her eyes. Hates what a pretty shade of dark blue they are right now. 

“For your death. We’ve established this.”

Clarke expulses air from her nostrils, amused. Even more so when Lexa shivers as she comes to stand right before her, so close their breasts nearly brush together with each breath. “You don’t want that yet. You want me to fuck you first.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah, that’s what you want.”

“I think that’s what _you_ want,” Lexa snarls. 

Clarke just shrugs lightly, tilting her head. “Maybe. It wouldn’t hurt you to give me a real orgasm for once.”

“I’ve given you countless orgasms; you haven’t given me a single one.”

Lexa expects it to be a blow to Clarke’s ego. She expects her to recognise the dig for the challenge it is.

Instead Clarke smirks, amusement glittering in her eyes as she runs her hand down the lapel of Lexa’s blouse. “Sorry, baby. Are you jealous?”

Lexa bares her teeth at the pet name. Clarke’s smirk just grows.

“I think you are.” She steps closer, leaning in, and Lexa lets her, stiff and motionless. “Are you desperate for it?” Clarke murmurs, nose grazing the line of Lexa’s jaw, hair tickling her skin.

“I am so desperate,” she breathes out slowly, eyes lowering to half mast as Clarke leans back to look at her, head tilted curiously. Lexa’s hand travels up, slipping into Clarke’s hair; she relishes the hiss Clarke makes when she suddenly tightens it into her fist and pulls, baring Clarke’s neck. “To have your blood spilling onto the ground."

The tiny, excited gasp Clarke releases has a shiver attempting to crawl up Lexa’s spine. “Buy a girl dinner first.”

“Technically I have.”

“You haven’t paid yet.”

“I’m paying for it right now having to entertain this nonsense.” Lexa releases her hair. She has to, because she just wants to pull on it harder and she needs to _end_ this now. “We need to go back inside, we’ve been out here too long.”

Clarke seems to be doing her very best to irritate Lexa at this point, because she actually _pouts._ “But we still haven’t tasted each other,” she says, hand trailing down Lexa’s torso.

“I’ve tasted you,” says Lexa without thinking. She doesn’t regret it. Not when it makes Clarke falter, thrown out of whatever game she’s playing, eyes visibly darkening as they flicker up to survey Lexa’s. They both stand stock still under the implications of Lexa’s words— how Lexa fucked Clarke in the hallway of her apartment and the manner in which Lexa had later cleaned her fingers afterwards. There’s a pregnant pause as they stand there. 

When Clarke kisses her, Lexa gets the feeling it’s not something she originally intended to do. Kisses her deep and filthy and hungry, and it’s all Lexa can do to lean against the brick wall for support, hands seeking out the flare of Clarke’s waist and clinging on.

She doesn’t understand how someone who could often leave such a sour taste in her mouth can taste so good. Lexa can’t help but return Clarke’s affections, chasing the kiss and leaning forward to the point where she actually walks Clarke backwards a few steps until they’re standing in the center of the alley and kissing like they’ve never kissed before. 

Lexa licks into her mouth, scrapes her teeth along the swell of Clarke’s bottom lip. Barely represses a shudder when Clarke makes this noise, this muffled growl or whine— it has Lexa wetter than ever, hips automatically tilting forward. Clarke responds in kind, her own hips pitching, then her forearms pressing into Lexa’s shoulders and steering her back, back, back, until Lexa presses into the course brick wall hard enough Lexa breaks the kiss with a huff. Clarke doesn’t miss a beat, mouth skimming lower under the sharp jut of Lexa’s jaw. She sucks bruises into Lexa’s neck and Lexa lets her; encourages it, even, breath hitching as her hand tangles in Clarke’s hair, pulling it loose from its messy bun until it falls freely over her shoulders in golden waves.

“Wet,” she hears Clarke mumble into the collarbone she’s currently laving her tongue over, and Lexa takes it like a command. “Are you wet?”

All Lexa can do is shudder.

“Tell me if you’re wet for me, Lexa.”

“Fuck,” Lexa hisses, stomach turning when Clarke’s tongue dips into her cleavage. 

“Tell me.”

She quietly gasps as Clarke hooks her fingers into the neck of her shirt and pulls it down and free of a few remaining buttons, her other hand tugging down the cup of Lexa’s bra until her breast pops free. Clarke bows her head, the tip of her tongue gliding hot and wet over the exposed flesh until it lingers, flicking, over the hardened peak of her nipple. _“Yes._ Yes, I’m so wet for you. Fuck. _Clarke_.”

Clarke hums into her nipple and Lexa’s next gasp catches into a whine when Clarke’s teeth scrape across her. The next whine shifts into a keening moan when Clarke pits her thigh forward and presses it between Lexa’s legs where she _burns_.

"Can I touch you?"

Lexa’s response is an embarrassingly frantic nod, the ache in her stomach and between her legs so overwhelming she feels blinded by it. She knows Clarke can feel, can hear, how hard her heart is pounding, but she’s too restless, too frantic to care right now. Clarke unbuttons her trousers and slips her hand between her legs.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Clarke husks, eyes half lidded as she explores Lexa’s folds with sure fingers. “Fuck, baby.”

She shouldn't call her baby. If Lexa was even the slightest bit sane right now, she might notice how Clarke faltered for just a moment, blinking, swallowing, before barrelling right past it. 

Lexa squirms against the wall, whine caught in her throat, as Clarke sucks on her nipple and pushes two fingers inside her. She cants her hips, urging her to move, to fuck her faster— God, Lexa’s going to explode, she’s wanted this so bad, needed it— but Clarke moves slowly, taking her time. When she pulls out, Lexa actually whimpers.

She watches with heavy eyes as Clarke lifts her hand and slips her fingers into her mouth. Lashes flutter over hazy blue at the taste; Clarke gives a throaty moan, and Lexa’s knees actually threaten to buckle before her. She’s never wanted someone so much. She’s never needed to come more in her entire life. 

“So good,” Clarke whispers, eyes opening as she pulls her hand out. She eyes Lexa and Lexa instinctively knows what she’s going to do; she automatically opens her mouth to take the fingers Clarke pushes in. Sucks the taste of herself off them and shudders at the way Clarke bites her bottom lip as she watches. 

Then she pulls out, urgently crowding forward, hands dropping to Lexa's waist.

“I have to eat you out,” Clarke’s explanation spills breathlessly into Lexa’s mouth as her hands fumble at her trousers, pushing them further down her hips until they're caught around her thighs. “I have to. It’s all I can think about lately. My mouth on you. Fuck, Lexa. Can I?”

Lexa nods over and over. Clarke begins sinking down, and that’s when the world turns upside down.

There’s nothing else like this that even remotely compares. 

Clarke. On her knees, hair glinting a pale gold in the dim light afforded to them from the moon overhead and the flickering bulb outside the restaurant door. Her head bobs, and the quiet hiss of Lexa’s sharp intake of breath joins the hush of the night; the muffled chatter of the restaurant, the distant rush of passing cars, the quiet thud as Lexa’s head tips back against the wall. She swallows down a groan, hands finding their way into the soft waves of Clarke’s hair. 

Clarke’s tongue slides slick and smooth through Lexa’s folds; she gasps when it flicks over the stiff peak of her clit, moans when it swirls in circles around her entrance. Her grip tightens, blonde hair tangled around her fingers, and feels Clarke’s fingertips dig into her thighs in return. The cry trips from her lips when the tip of Clarke’s nose presses against her as her tongue pushes inside her. She can feel the vibration of Clarke’s satisfied hum all the way to her bones.

“You taste amazing,” Clarke sighs, warm breath washing over a shuddering Lexa, “Mmm. I could do this all night.”

 _Please don’t,_ thinks Lexa, struggling not to writhe against the wall she’s propped up against. She needs to come. She tightens her grip in Clarke’s hair, blond tresses tight in her fists, and Clarke hums again, head tilting gently as she swirls her tongue around and around before lapping at her, drinking in everything Lexa has to offer. Lexa moans and Clarke’s answering groan of approval vibrates in the deepest part of her.

So close. It takes no time at all for her to get so close she’s shaking, trembling, breath catching and heart thundering against her rib cage. There’s a thin layer of sweat on her skin, and she’s biting her lip hard enough to bruise in an effort to keep her noises at a minimum; if anyone interrupts them right now she might just kill them. Her clit throbs and pulsates beneath Clarke’s tongue, her muscles clench around Clarke’s fingers when she slips them inside her and curls, hooks, thrusts.

“Fuck,” Lexa gasps, head knocking the brick wall as the familiar ache in her lower stomach intensifies, streaks out from the point of contact like crackling electricity. Clarke licks at her, eats her out and fucks her with renewed vigor, every bit as certain as Lexa that she’s going to come all over her face in probably the next five seconds. 

And then the door knob rattles, Clarke’s grip suddenly digs tightly into Lexa’s thigh as fingers yank out from inside her, and Lexa’s heart lodges into her throat.

Light spills into the alleyway as the door swings open, and in an instant Clarke has vanished. Lexa’s heart jumps into her throat and her hands shake as she fumbles to shove her breast back into her bra, yank her shirt into place, and pull up her pants.

“Lexa?” Artigas frowns as he takes in the sight of her, alone, leaning against the brick wall with her chest heaving, her hair mussed, and her clothes rumpled and unbuttoned. Artigas’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “Err... What are you doing?”

_Fucking nothing!_

Lexa could scream.

She could scream, and have blood spilling onto the pavement, and— 

And she can’t do that. She needs to calm down (she’s going to pull her own hair out, oh my _God_ , what the _fuck_ ).

“Nothing,” she snaps, voice far weaker than she would like as she pushes herself off the wall and crosses the distance to the door with trembling legs. Artigas watches her with bemusement, cheeks reddened, but says nothing as she storms past him into the restaurant. 

She blindly recognizes their table and makes for it. Just as Lexa draws near it, the front door to the restaurant opens and in walks Clarke with a wrinkled jacket, messy hair, and an infuriatingly smug smirk.

Lexa’s going to kill her, and everyone else here.

She’s not. But she really, really could.

And then, because the universe hates her, the kitchen door swings open as Gustus comes bustling through clutching a tray of dessert. He comes to a halt when he sees Lexa, face immediately creasing into a concerned frown, and Lexa can’t help the way her wide eyes flit to Clarke, who looks back at them, just as wide-eyed and startled. For a moment the three of them just stand there. Lexa looks back at Gustus, who is looking at Clarke, and she can see it sink in. Can see him recognize Lexa’s jacket that Clarke is wearing, can probably see the gun Clarke has tucked into her waistband. Lexa watches the gears click into place. 

When Gustus looks back at her, his slack face clouds with grim understanding before everything wipes away entirely and his expression is utterly blank as he places the dessert down on their table and then leaves, without a word, back into the kitchen.

_Great._

Indra and Kane are both still sitting at the table, and are surprisingly deep in conversation, to the point where they don’t even sense their approach until they’re actually sitting. Indra actually seems to be enjoying herself, which perhaps Lexa would take note of if she could concentrate on anything other than the painful throbbing between her legs and the wild whirring of her heart. 

“This place is amazing,” Kane gushes, beaming as he digs into whatever decadent chocolate dessert placed before him, and Indra actually nods in agreement as she takes a neat bite of her own. 

“Taste good?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa’s gaze snaps to her, but she’s not looking at her. She’s looking at Kane, though her smirk tells Lexa she said that specifically so she would hear it.

Lexa sits in stony silence while Kane and Indra finish up their food. She manages a forced smile and a nod when Clarke announces this dinner was to thank the two of them for being so wonderful to work with. She doesn’t listen to the excuse Clarke rattles off when Kane asks why neither of them hardly touched their food.

“It’s getting late, so I think I’d better be heading out of here. Clarke, I know your flat is not too far from mine, did you want me to drop you off? Or were you and Lexa riding home together?”

“Actually, a ride would be great, thank you.”

Lexa's stomach drops in the most unpleasant of ways. Clarke no longer even lives in her flat; Lexa knows, because she went there to find the place cleaned out, empty. She's just doing this to be cruel, knowing she could stay behind with Lexa, could finish what she started. 

God Lexa needs to kill her.

The echo of Clarke’s crooked smile is back as she looks at Lexa. “I’ll see you later, baby. Thanks for a wonderful meal. I mean, truly…” Clarke bends down; she Indra and Kane are all on heir feet, but Lexa’s still seated. Clarke braces herself with a forearm on the arm of Lexa’s chair so she can lean in and give Lexa a slow, lingering kiss that tastes of sex. “Most delicious dinner I’ve had in a while. My compliments to the chef.”

The chef is going to kill you, thinks Lexa, and I might just let him.

She’s still sitting when Clarke and Kane exit. Clarke is still wearing her goddamn jacket.

“Lexa?” Indra’s voice is impatient enough Lexa realizes she must have said it more than once. She jolts, rising to her feet. Indra looks at her with the keen bemusement of someone who probably realized Lexa and Clarke’s extended period of absence more than they realized. “Are you needing a ride?”

Lexa shakes her head. “No, Indra.” She tries her best to put on a smile, a real one this time, aware it probably came out small and tired. “Thank you, though.”

Indra dips her head in a nod. “Thanks for dinner. See you Monday.”

Lexa watches her leave, sitting back down in her chair. Artigas comes over and chats incessantly as he begins clearing up their plates; Lexa’s gaze catches on Clarke’s, just as full as Lexa’s, and she shakes her head when Artigas asks if she wants a couple boxes to take the food home.

The ache is still burning fervently in the pit of her stomach, angry. Unsatisfied. 

She’s going to have to talk to Gustus— and make plans.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

Last chapter someone said they quite liked the art of Clarke/Wanheda and would like to see some of Lexa next chapter. I'm afraid I don't really have specific images in mind for Lexa because I imagine her to look just like canon Lexa, save for the fact that she can make a mask out of blood (black blood crawling from her eyes like tears to be specific). But here are a couple images anyway.

This art is by [glping ](https://glping-art.tumblr.com/post/138851097323/heda-i-just-watched-the-100-and-now-im-like)

This art is by [z-end](https://the100fanarts.tumblr.com/post/130830135981/z-end-idk)

And then here's another bit of art of Clarke for good measure, though I can't find who created this (lost in a rabbit hole of Pinterest posts), so if you know please let me know so I can credit and link to their blog!

Also: I do have a Tumblr if you want to come have a shout. [Here's a link](https://deviltakesthewaltz.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it. I actually had to split this chapter into two, so hopefully I'll have chapter 4 out fairly soon. I promise Lexa will finally get her turn soon, before she loses her mind. Lil is my witness- here's another of her comments: "Just you wait, Lexa. I've seen the future, and you're walking funny in it. Stay strong."
> 
> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa struggles to suppress her shudder when Clarke leans in and the tip of her nose trails along the arch of Lexa’s neck. “If you wanted to kill me you already would have done it. Admit it. You just want fucked.”
> 
> A muscle in Lexa’s jaw jumps, but she otherwise maintains an expression of stone. “If that was the case, there are endless women to choose from, Clarke.”
> 
> “Not like me. You want fucked by me. If you weren’t such a coward, you’d admit that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait; this past hell-year kept me busy, and then the Holy Ghost of Clexa rose up and possessed me to start a Clexa period drama. I'm going to post it for Clexa week.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. Your words validate me for life so let me know what you think. If you don't want Clexa to step on you by the end of it, then I'm not doing my job properly with this fic.
> 
> As always, tags and warnings are listed in the end notes. If you like warnings, check them out. If you don't want to be spoiled, then read on. Obviously if you're this far in, you're aware of all the smut. This empire was built on filth. (circa Lil, 2k21)
> 
> Special cheers to my buds who read this and enable my sin: Lil, Coleslaw, Amy, and Hedakwin. You're the best, ta.

“I didn’t know she was Wanheda.”

It is the first thing Lexa says, anticipating Gustus’s first question. The two of them are still in his restaurant, though it’s long been emptied of any customers or staff members; Lexa waited for hours, alone at a smaller table, arms crossed beneath her chest, watching the candle on the centerfold burning and burning. Earlier Artigas brought out breadsticks that are still untouched, cradled in their napkin and nestled in their wicker basket. It’s past midnight now.

“I didn’t,” she says flatly, when Gustus merely looks at her incredulously. 

_“How_ could you have dated a woman for weeks and not known?”

“The same way she didn’t know who I am.”

“Are you so sure she didn’t?”

The words give Lexa pause. She’d considered that for a moment, of course. But no one was that good of an actor. And if she had known, Lexa suspects she wouldn’t have hesitated in killing her as she had. 

“She didn’t.”

Silence stretches between them. Lexa is not sure why she’s so loathe to make eye contact. She stares at the flickering candle in the tea light before her.

“What are your plans? I want to help,” Gustus says abruptly. 

Lexa moves her jaw from side to side. Anger bubbles in her gut at the fact that...she doesn’t have any plans. Not yet. 

“You must know where she lives,” Gustus continues, encouraging, full of fire. “We could go there now. Lie in wait for her—” 

“She already moved. I don’t know where she’s living now.”

“I doubt she remains in one place,” Gustus says, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “She is probably always on the move since you discovered her.”

“I would imagine so. She’s not an idiot.”

“Nor are we. We know where she works. We could rig a bomb—”

“And kill everyone that works at Polis News?” Lexa rolls her eyes. “It would draw attention. I don’t want that mess on my hands.”

Gustus lapses into thought again. “We could challenge her. Send notice through all the territories. Threaten to reveal her identity. Surely she would—”

“She would know I was bluffing, considering she knows my identity as well.” And let’s be real: Lexa has more to lose. Or rather Alexandria Woodward has more to lose.

“We could check the surveillance cameras downtown.”

“I’ve already done that, Gustus. She’s a ghost.”

Gustus drags a huge hand over his tattooed face, weariness etched into every line of it. “I do not understand why you do not seem more concerned about this, Heda. This is urgent. We should be on the streets right now, searching for her.”

Lexa’s stomach twists, and she clenches her hand into a fist. “I have so much to do. Don’t you understand that? I have to hunt down Ontari. I have to finish off the Maunon, and find out who exactly it was that decided to steal from me. I have to annihilate the last of Nia’s supporters within Azgeda. I have to find any remaining Nightbloods. My hands are full. Clarke is the least of my concerns right now.”

“ _Wanheda_ is your biggest concern right now. She knows who you are. The fact that you cannot see the danger in that is alarming.”

God. So sanctimonious. He means well, Lexa knows. He’s just thinking of her safety. But he’s still doubting her ability to handle this, and that’s what frustrates her the most. _Disappoints_ her the most, even while it does not surprise her. 

“This is dangerous, Heda. Your personal feelings are clouding your mind.”

Lexa exhales a harsh, frustrated breath, running her hand through her hair. “You sound like Titus now.”

“I am not trying to. But you know it’s the truth. You are too close to this girl to have perspective. This is not the same girl you have been dating, this is Wanheda!”

“Yes, I think I realized that some time in the last couple weeks when she tried to kill me,” Lexa snaps.

“Exactly. Yet she is still breathing.”

“I’m working on it, Gustus.”

“How?” When he asks her outright, Lexa clenches her jaw. “If you had a way you would already have done it. Yet for some reason you have not. Meanwhile our people continue to suffer by her actions while you stand aside and do nothing.”

“ _Enough_.”

Gustus falls silent immediately at Lexa’s tone. She looks at him with an unflinching intensity, and he bows his head in deference.

“You have no reason for such disrespect. When have I _ever_ failed? When have I ever not given _everything_ in me to take care of our people?”

“I apologize.” Gustus takes a deep breath, looks up at her beseechingly. “Lexa, I am not intending to be disrespectful. I just fear for your life. I have never seen you behave this way, this situation has never happened before. I worry that Wanheda will bring about your death.”

“Death comes for us all,” Lexa says dryly. “You can rest assured Wanheda will not be the cause of mine.”

“Then let me help you. Let me help you take her down.”

“I already told you no. This is between Wanheda and I. This is _personal_.” 

“But—”

Suddenly they are interrupted by the harsh vibration of a phone, followed by a melodic tinkling sound that can only mean one thing. Lexa’s heart thumps as she fishes a phone out of her handbag and looks at the screen. 

“It’s my cop on the inside,” she says calmly, still even while Gustus leans forward in sudden urgent anticipation. Lexa reads the words across the screen with grim satisfaction. “He wants to meet tomorrow. He has a lead.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The Dropship is always a mess. 

Clarke tucks the leather jacket she’d stolen from Lexa more tightly around her. She’s not scared of being recognized— most people give Wanheda a wide berth anyway. She just doesn’t want to deal with people right now. At least, no one except for the man standing behind the bar she’s currently making a beeline for.

Murphy has run this place for as long as Clarke could remember. He’s around her age, but he took over from the previous owner when he was barely eighteen. On papers, the Dropship is your standard run of the mill skeezy dive bar with a bad reputation, known for attracting the scum of Polis City. In the underground, it’s well known for being a hub for the black market. Under that bar there was a keycode to flip it upside down and display most any weapon for sale that the unsavory could get their hands on. Clarke had frequented it herself on occasion. But today, she was here for something else.

“You said you had a lead,” she says with no preamble when she reaches the bar. It’s mostly empty, particularly at this time— quarter past ten on a bleary Wednesday morning. Murphy looks up from where he’s wiping down equipment and arches a brow.

“Buy me a drink first.”

“Murphy, I swear to God. I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Don’t give me false hope.” Murphy smirks. He’s probably the only person in the world who isn’t afraid of her, but Clarke wagers it makes sense. Why would a cockroach fear the atomic bomb?

Still. Clarke knows him enough to call his bluff. He may not be able to die, but he could still be put on death’s door and spend days, weeks, _months_ suffering in agony. She knows because she’s put him there herself, before. 

So she just looks at him, face like stone, and the smirk slides off his face. He sighs. “Yeah, I got one. But you might want to buy yourself a drink for this one.”

Clarke isn’t drinking anything in public anymore. Not since Lexa. The mere thought of her makes her heart skip, so she resolutely shoves it away. “Just tell me.”

This has to be big, because Murphy looks weighed down by it. He casts a wary glance around with his flat eyes before leaning in to say lowly, “They found the kid.”

Everything crashes to a halt. The other customers freeze, gazes turning on them, and glasses fall to the floor when Clarke reacts, seizing Murphy by the collar of his wrinkled shirt and yanking him over the bar, stools clattering to the floor as she slams him up against it and looks into his panicked eyes, her own wide and wild. 

“Where?” When Murphy doesn’t immediately respond, she shoves him into the bar again, a few more bottles shattering. Murphy curses, but Clarke cuts over him and demands, “ _Where_ , Murphy?”

“She’s been lurking around the alleyways,” he chokes out, face twisted in anger and pain. Clarke eases her grip on his throat, enough for him to draw in a strangled breath. “She’s been spotted in alleyways around the old Azgeda territory. That’s all I know. I swear,” he adds with a hiss when Clarke merely squeezes.

She stares at him for another second before dropping him. He reaches back to clutch at the bar so he doesn’t fall to his feet, one hand jumping to his bruised throat. He glares at Clarke. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. Was that really necessary?”

The other customers return to their own business, the low hum of their chatter filling the air again. Clarke remains standing before Murphy, staring at nothing in particular, possessed with ideas as she absently pulls a few crumpled bills from her pockets. 

“Thanks,” she says distractedly, tossing them at Murphy as she turns to leave.

“Yeah whatever,” he mutters as he collects them.

Clarke is already halfway out the door. Vengeance surges in her veins. She’s been waiting for this moment for _years_. 

Forget dealing with the Commander. This is it. This is finally it. 

This is what she’s been waiting for.

  
  


* * *

Lexa hasn’t stepped foot in Nia’s old territory in years. The last time she was here, it was to stamp out the group of resistance soldiers fighting in Nia’s name who holed up here not long after Lexa left her pinned to her throne with a spear. After that, the remaining Azgeda scattered, most taking up residence in the Dead Zone. Lexa wasn’t naive enough to believe all were gone. She knew Ontari was still skulking around making plans of her own, and she doubted Roan was as innocent as he acted, either.

She ends up running into one such soldier half an hour into her searching— or rather he runs into her. No one was foolish enough to attack the Commander in the open, not alone anyway, but Lexa’s hood was on and she was sticking to the shadows of the alley when the man looms out of the dark, knife in hand, and slashes at her. She doesn’t even reach for her swords; she looks at him and he comes to a dead halt in the air, knife held aloft. His eyes bulge, wide and round, when he realizes who she is.

“No. No, no, no.”

Lexa doesn’t respond, merely walking forward to where she keeps him frozen suspended in the air. She ignores his panic as she rolls his shirt sleeve up. When she spots the tattoo on his bicep— the handprint with a spiral in the palm— her mind is made up.

“Please,” he begs her, and she recoils in disgust at how he dribbles. “Please spare me, Commander. Please!”

She considers him for a long moment before nodding swiftly. “Fine.” Relief and joy dawn on his face for only a moment, before Lexa tilts her head and his neck snaps. He remains suspended for a second, the light leaving his eyes, before he crumpled to the ground. 

She spared him with a quick death. Let no one say the Commander has no mercy at all. 

It’s then that she senses it; another presence, not far away. The rush of blood. Lexa looks up and she sees her. Someone short and slight enough it _has_ to be the child. 

And she has just killed someone in front of her. 

“Don’t be frightened,” Lexa says gently, hand extended. “I’m here to help.”

The girl takes off before Lexa can take even a step toward her, and she curses. She doesn’t want to use her power, not against this girl— she doesn’t want to build distrust. 

She chases her down winding streets, weaving through narrow alleyways. The frustration builds; this child is unnaturally fast, and more accustomed to this area than Lexa is, and Lexa doesn’t want to lose her. She finally gives in and, in the middle of main street, reaches out to stop the girl with her powers. The girl screams.

“You’re safe,” Lexa tells her, barely out of breath from all the running and darting and leaping over rubbish bins. “I won’t hurt you. I told you, I’m here to help.”

The girl hasn’t screamed again, nor is she shouting for help. She’s undoubtedly already aware it’s safer to keep quiet and hidden, rather than attracting unwanted attention. Lexa takes a step closer, noting the way the whites of the girl’s eyes show as they wheel around in a panic, searching for an escape despite the fact that she’s caught in Lexa’s hold. Lexa holds both hands palm up and moves slowly. 

_“Chit laik yu?”_ she asks, and terror-filled eyes snap onto her. Lexa tilts her head. _“Laik yu Natblida?”_

The girl’s lips part, but before she can say anything, chaos erupts between them. 

Lexa’s gasp is strangled in her throat as she lunges to the side, and the child lunges to the other, just in time to avoid the wave of gold that explodes where they’d just been standing. Lexa looks up in time to see none other than Wanheda descending upon them, clearly having jumped from the nearest rooftop, and the pavement breaks with an ear-splitting crack as Clarke lands hard on the street hardly twenty feet away, her shield glowing brightly around her body. Before Lexa can even process the fact that Clarke is suddenly here, and in full Wanheda garb again, Clarke is using one hand to push a ward out and the other to withdraw a gun from her jacket, aiming it at the child, who squeaks and stumbles back so quickly she trips and falls. Lexa scrambles to her feet and moves to stand between them.

“Stop! Stop it! What are you _doing?”_

“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Clarke shouts back. She aggressively points at the child. “Let her go! She’s mine.”

“Yours?” Lexa says blankly, at a total loss now.

“Mine to kill!” 

Lexa looks at her, aghast, her grip on her swords tightening. “She is a child.”

“She’s fucking _dead!”_

Lexa doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand why Clarke is filled with more rage than she’s ever seen on her, a desperate, anguished type of fury Lexa did not see even when she first discovered her and they fought then. Clarke’s eyes are glazed with it and Lexa knows there will be no negotiating with her on this. She lunges to the right just in time, slicing her swords through the wave of gold Clarke hurls toward the child. Behind her, she can feel the girl scurrying to safety, diving behind a skip bin. Lexa carves her swords through another ward before flinging away the bullets Clarke sends their way, over and over until Clarke’s gun is clicking empty and there are bullets lodged in the brick walls around them. 

Clarke sends a ward up higher, knocking the lamp post down so Lexa is forced to reach up before it can land on them. Lexa throws the fallen lamp post at Clarke but it just explodes back at them, rebounded by her shield, and Lexa has to catch it mid-air and throw it behind her, and then the next shield Clarke sends knocks Lexa onto her ass. For a second there’s nothing but chaos, the sound of crashing debris and the girl screaming and Clarke grunting as she throws wards.

“Stay out of my way!” Clarke roars at her, rushing down the street, but she’s stopped short when Lexa reaches into the air and yanks the skip bin forward, teeth grinding with the effort as she pulls it directly into Clarke’s path. The child is scrambling, stumbling on the pavement as she runs toward the mouth of a nearby alleyway; Clarke hurdles around the skip bin but before she can give chase, Lexa, who has hauled herself to her feet and shoved her swords back into their sheath at her back, launches forward to intercept. She tackles her.

She doesn’t make contact, of course, but she shoulders into the bubble protecting Clarke hard enough that they both rocket back from the impact and crash to the ground. They climb to their feet slowly, panting, teeth bared at one another. 

_“Why_ are you attacking an innocent child?” Lexa demands, reaching behind her back to pull her swords out again.

“She’s not innocent, but I fail to see how it’s any of your goddamn business. What the fuck are you doing here? How did you know I was coming here?”

“I _didn’t.”_ They slowly circle one another in the middle of the damaged street, the pavement cracked beneath their feet. “If I had known, I would have been more prepared.”

Lexa can’t see Clarke’s face through the skull mask, but she’s certain she can hear the sneer in her voice. “You have to prepare to fight? That’s cute.”

“Prepared to deal with you,” Lexa says, jaw clenched. She spins her sword in her hand, eyes keen on Clarke’s every move. “I’m tired of this. I’ve had enough of you.”

 _“Really?_ ” Lexa can imagine the roll of Clarke’s tongue as she says the word, and she tries to shake off the warmth that accompanies it. She tries to push the idea of Clarke’s tongue out of her mind. “You weren’t saying that last night.”

“Fuck off,” Lexa snarls. 

“Yeah, that’s _exactly_ what you want.”

Then she lunges.

Sparks scatter into the night sky as Lexa’s swords clash against Clarke’s shield, and she manages to pull them out before Clarke can make them stick. Lexa kicks at her, Clarke sliding backwards when Lexa’s foot slams the bubble surrounding her. 

“Are we really going to do this again?” Lexa asks, and her bored tone doesn’t quite hide the strain of frustration hiding just beneath the surface.

“We wouldn’t have to if you’d just get out of my way.”

 _“You’re_ the one always in _my_ way.”

“Aw, are you still pissed off I haven’t returned the favors yet?”

Lexa uses her powers to hurl a handful of bricks that had been knocked loose from a building at her. They thud against Clarke’s shield when she pushes it out.

“Okay, so, you are pissed.”

“You talk too much,” Lexa growls. 

“Well, soon you won’t be talking at all.”

Lexa spins, slicing her sword through another ward that’s hurled at her, and then another, and another— until she realizes now Clarke is chucking a knife at her, and she _reaches_ for it, and manages to catch it just before it leaves the surface layer of Clarke’s shield, and takes the momentum to spin it back the opposite way, holding it at the ready.

Clarke stills, eyes widening behind her mask, her gasp quiet but audible as the knife shivers, trembles like a drawn bow, point facing the space right between Clarke’s eyes. It’s half a second, more than enough for Lexa to send it straight through her skull. She could do it. One move, and Clarke would be dead and Wanheda would forever be out of Lexa’s hair. 

_“This is dangerous, Heda. Your personal feelings are clouding your mind.”_

She _has_ to kill her.

The knife glints in the dim light of the lone nearby street lamp, just as blue glints behind the skull mask, and Lexa _can’t_.

Clarke pushes a ward out and the knife goes with it; she catches it in her hand, fingers wrapping around the handle, and advances on Lexa in an instant, holding it to her throat. Lexa pushes Clarke’s hand back with her powers, but it’s then that she realizes she was focusing so much on that knife that she didn’t notice what Clarke was doing with her other hand.

She doesn’t see the second knife until it’s too late.

A searing pain ripples out from her middle and she looks down to see the handle sticking out from her stomach. Black blood trickles down from it, and then Lexa’s vision swims. 

She stumbles back, shocked. She knows it’s not fatal; it missed any vital organs and she can already feel her blood rushing to heal it. But it’s still a bad hit, enough that she falls to her knees, clutching at it, blinking down at the way the blood drips over her fingers. Then her head spins again and she falls to the ground. 

“No, wait. No, no, no—”

The last thing she sees is Clarke lunging forward to catch her, and then her stricken face as she pulls her mask down.

“Lex. Lex,” Clarke whispers. Lexa stirs as hands tap against her face. “ _Lex._ Are you okay? Talk to me.”

Clarke’s face swims into view. It’s pale, and her eyes are so wide they very nearly swallow her face whole. They’re so _blue._

“Are you okay?” Clarke says again, voice urgent, and Lexa realizes she’s lying in her arms on the pavement. 

Lexa grimaces and looks up at her, annoyed. “You fucking stabbed me.”

Clarke freezes. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah, I did. And I’d do it again. Don’t tempt me.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Lexa groans, wincing as she shifts in Clarke’s arms, the pavement hard on her hips and her wound throbbing. 

“Not if I kill you first,” Clarke says, but Lexa can tell from the lightness in her voice that she’s relieved. It confuses her. She’d almost killed her; why not finish the job?

They hold their gaze, the air between them so charged Lexa can almost feel the hairs on her arms rising. Clarke looks at her and for a moment, Lexa thinks she’s going to kiss her.

But then she abruptly puts her mask back on and gets up, dropping Lexa from her arms unceremoniously, and Lexa suddenly feels cold, the pavement damp with her blood beneath her. She climbs to her feet gingerly, but she relaxes a second later; her stomach barely twinges, already almost fully healed. She waves her hand over her body to pull the blood free of her clothes, letting it fall to the pavement with a wet splat.

“I can’t believe you let her get away from me,” Clarke says, agitated; she’s started to pace. She sounds distracted at first, like she’s still preoccupied with what just happened with Lexa, but as she continues, her voice strengthens as the anger returns to it. “Do you even know how long I’ve been looking for her? Years. I finally found her and I was so close, and you just fucking _ruined_ it.”

Lexa watches her pace for a moment. Her shield is drawn down fairly low, a mere ripple of gold shimmering an inch out from her skin. Enough that Lexa couldn’t stab her, but it would be easy to pull a building down on her. She should attack her. 

She should.

“Tell me the truth,” Lexa says, voice far softer than she’d like it to be. “Why do you want to kill the child? What did she do to you?”

“It’s not what she did to me,” Clarke snaps, but now Lexa can hear the tremor in her voice. Can detect the strain in it. “She— she killed my friend.”

“What?” Lexa blinks. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, I was _there!_ I know it was her.”

Lexa frowns. “Maybe—”

“Don’t fucking doubt me. I _know_ it was her. I’ll— I’ll never forget it.”

“Okay.” Lexa exhales. “Fine. I believe you.”

Clarke stills. Looks up at her. Lexa can see the glint of blue eyes through the mask, wide with surprise. “You do?”

“I believe that’s what you believe.”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m not crazy.”

Lexa arches a brow. “Says the girl who just stabbed me.”

Clarke snorts. “As if you’ve never tried to kill me. Need I remind you that you chained me up in your fucking torture basement.”

“That you escaped from,” Lexa pointed out.

 _“After_ you fucked me.” Lexa can hear the smirk in Clarke’s voice, so she looks away scowling. She nearly jumps when she suddenly feels Clarke’s hand on her arm, tugging insistently on her shirt sleeve to get her attention. When she looks at Clarke, she can see her eyes have changed again. Darkened. Lexa is going to get whiplash from her. “And after I fucked you. Is that why you didn’t kill me when you had the chance, earlier? You wanted yours, first?”

“I was going to kill you,” Lexa snarls, but Clarke doesn’t bite. Her hand moves to Lexa’s torso, palm pressing over her newly-healed wound; Lexa hisses in pain when Clarke suddenly pushes down on it, but then Clarke has her pressed against the brick wall, and Lexa feels the strangest sensation, a detached sort of warmth that’s just crept over her skin; Clarke shudders out of view and then back, and Lexa’s eyes widen as she reaches up and lifts her mask to the top of her head so Lexa can see her face. Lexa swallows, heart thudding faster in her chest, as she flits her gaze over Clarke’s countenance. She is so inconveniently beautiful.

“No you weren’t.” Lexa struggles to suppress her shudder when Clarke leans in and the tip of her nose trails along the arch of Lexa’s neck. “If you wanted to kill me you already would have done it. Admit it. You just want fucked.”

A muscle in Lexa’s jaw jumps, but she otherwise maintains an expression of stone. “If that was the case, there are endless women to choose from, Clarke.”

“Not like me. You want fucked by _me_. If you weren’t such a coward, you’d admit that.” Nothing proves the claim more than the fact that when Clarke’s arm shoots out, when her hand lands between Lexa’s legs, Lexa does nothing more than suck in a sharp intake of breath. “I bet you’ve been constantly wet thinking about it, haven’t you?” Clarke’s voice is low, gravely; her hand cups Lexa, feels the heat burning through the layers of fabric. “About me inside you. Fucking you slow to start out with, and then faster, harder, the way you need it. You need railed, don’t you? It’s what you want. What you _need_. Big bad Commander just needs someone to bend her over and spank her.”

Lexa snarls, baring her teeth, squeezing Clarke’s wrist tighter, enough to bruise her. Clarke doesn’t even wince; she sighs, her eyes fluttering and turning darker, pearly white teeth sinking into a pink lower lip. 

“God, don’t be embarrassed. I want it too. As much as you piss me off and I want to see you die by my hand, I want to watch you unravel. I think about it all the time. How hot you’d look on your knees for me, begging me to let you come.” Her mouth curls into a slow, smug grin. “It’s a good look for you.”

Lexa doesn’t move. Clarke’s grin spreads, but her eyes lower to half mast as she raises up, ignoring the arm Lexa still has pinned down, and brushes her lips across the underside of Lexa’s jaw, across her jumping pulse, to the centre of Lexa’s chest, just above her cleavage. 

“Really want my mouth on these,” whispers Clarke, and Lexa shakily exhales. “And here again…” She pointedly presses her fingers down before withdrawing; Lexa’s grip on her wrist tightens in protest, but Clarke only pulls back far enough to yank Lexa’s shirt out of her waistband so she can slip her hand inside. Her fingers crawl over Lexa’s underwear, shifting down and then beneath it. Clarke hums in approval while Lexa’s breath catches with the quietest of whimpers as fingers sift through her folds, massaging gently. “You tasted so good.” She softly rubs her clit for a moment, hungrily watching as Lexa’s eyes shut, as her lips part even more as her breathing quickens. She dips down, teases into the wet heat at Lexa’s entrance. “You remember how it felt? My mouth on you, my tongue inside you.”

“I remember you left me hanging again,” says Lexa through clenched teeth. 

Clarke can’t help her smirk, nor the way she slips one finger in, to the first knuckle. “I think you should let me finish the job now, don’t you? Let me eat you out again. Promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Well I should hope so. You did fucking stab me.”

Clarke’s smirk widens as she pulls her hand out and brings it to her lips, licks her finger clean while dark eyes watch her every move. “Then let me make it up to you.”

Lexa stares at her with half-lidded eyes. Thinks about her conversation with Gustus last night. Thinks about how this is _Wanheda_ , and Lexa’s life would be so much easier if she would just kill her.

There’s a wet popping sound as Clarke finishes sucking her finger clean and looks at Lexa expectantly.

Lexa takes a breath. “I think we need to find some privacy. I don’t want to be interrupted from the things I want to do to you.”

Clarke’s response is a slow, wicked smile. 

“Neutral territory,” Lexa decides, because she’s sure Clarke won’t want to reveal where she’s living to Lexa no more than Lexa would her, and Clarke already knows about one too many safe houses Lexa owns.

Clarke raises a brow. “What, the Dead Zone?”

“Yes.” Lexa speaks in a clipped tone as she tucks her shirt back in. “The cathedral, perhaps.”

“No.”

Lexa looks up, eyes flashing, to find Clarke just looking at her with a gaze so heated and smoldering Lexa swears the temperature rises a couple degrees. “Why not?”

“We could be interrupted there, for one.” 

Lexa’s jaw tics as she thinks it over. Well. She supposes she has plenty of safe houses… “Fine. The safe house, then.”

Clarke arches a cool brow. “The one you imprisoned me in?”

“The one you escaped from,” Lexa says just as coolly.

“Gonna let me tie you up this time?” 

“Over my dead body.”

“Oh, baby,” Clarke purrs, and Lexa’s blood pressure sky-rockets as Clarke crowds up against her again, breasts soft against Lexa’s. “That can still be arranged.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They traverse across the rooftops together. Hair streaming in the wind as they sprint and take huge, leaping bounds. 

It’s the fastest way to cross the city. Lexa’s not usually one for it; she prefers the ground to the sky, but the quicker they make it across the city, the better. It’s a miracle in itself already that they’ve managed to keep pushing forward without stopping, because every other second Lexa’s will wavers and she considers the merits of simply fucking Clarke on a random rooftop. 

But she’d meant what she said. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it right. 

One last foray before she kills her, she tells herself. That’s all this is. It’s just finishing what they started. That’s it. 

They reach the safehouse in no time at all. Lexa punches in the code, distracted as Clarke presses up to her back, hands roaming over her front. Lexa’s already turning in her arms and slanting their mouths together by the time she hits the door handle and pulls her in.

They stumble over the threshold, knocking into the walls. Lexa uses her powers to close the door when they’re already halfway down the hall, mouths moving urgently together, Clarke’s hands buried in her hair and Lexa’s skimming across hot skin beneath Clarke’s shirt before she grasps it in her fists and _tugs_ , and Clarke hurriedly reaches down to grab the hem and help Lexa pull it over her head. She trips over something, stumbling as Lexa walks her backwards. Reaches back to unstrap her own bra, and her shield flashes back on as she nearly falls— Lexa makes to catch her but is bounced off by it, but before she can even make a comment Clarke’s shield blinks off and she’s grabbing at Lexa and crashing their mouths together again, just as Lexa pins her against the wall. Clarke claws at Lexa’s shirt until she takes the hint and detaches long enough to tear the shirt off her. Their bare skin presses together and Clarke makes a noise that’s muffled against Lexa’s lips. 

Lexa is far less astonished than she should be at the fact that they’re here and this is finally happening. Her body burns with need and her head spins with memories, vividly recalling the way Clarke’s tongue moved through her in the alley outside the restaurant, the way her fingers moved inside her here, there, everywhere. She presses wantonly against Clarke, hips rising, grinding, and Clarke spins them around to push Lexa against the wall.

“God, fuck me already,” Lexa’s groan shifts, rises in pitch as Clarke sucks at a particularly tender spot on her neck. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough—”

“Tell me how long.” Clarke’s lips skim across Lexa’s heaving chest. Lexa utters a strangled gasp, hands clutching at Clarke’s hair when Clarke’s lips wrap around a nipple. She frowns as she glimpses the red strands in her hair; the red of Wanheda. She clenches her hands into fists and the dye pulls off, sprinkles to the floor in a cloud of red dust, leaving behind the familiar gold. Clarke hums in approval, tongue sliding over the stiff peak of Lexa’s nipple. “Tell me how bad you want me to make you come.”

“ _Clarke_.”

“Use your words, Lexa. I know you’re good at that.”

Lexa says her name again, more harshly this time, and grips Clarke’s hair to steer her head up. A string of saliva connects Clarke’s lips to her nipple as she looks up; it breaks when she licks her lips as she levels hazy eyes on Lexa, eyes so dark they’re more black than blue. “Please just— _fuck_ me.”

Clarke’s lips tilt up at the corners, a carnal crawl Lexa can _feel_ simmering in the pit of her stomach.

The relief that sweeps over Lexa when Clarke finally shuts the fuck up, and bows her head and gets to work, is almost overwhelming.

But it’s nothing compared to the relief she feels when Clarke slips her hand into her pants and directly into the wet heat waiting for her. The moan slips out before Lexa can stop it, and increases in volume when Clarke pushes two fingers inside her.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Lexa pants, spreading her legs as best she can when standing against the wall with her pants still on. Clarke pulls out and pushes in and Lexa rolls her hips with the movement.

“Fuck, Lexa,” Clarke hums again, fingers curling inside her. “You feel so good. So tight and wet.”

Tight because she’s already clenching around her; it’s been hardly ninety seconds and she’s about to come. She’d be humiliated if she weren’t so desperate. Her breath rips at her throat harshly, something that sounds embarrassingly close to sobs, but Lexa doesn’t know if she can even find it in herself to care about that. As it is, all she can do is clutch helplessly at Clarke’s back, her blunt nails tearing into her skin, as Clarke thrusts harder inside her, fills her and stretches her and lets Lexa clench and pulsate around her fingers. Clarke presses her other hand to Lexa’s stomach, palm flat and fingers splayed and thumb extended down, the tip pressing into Lexa’s stiff clit. Clarke nuzzles the curve where Lexa’s neck meets her shoulder, and her tongue drags slowly over the straining tendons.

Lexa’s toes curl and her neck strains and her body quakes as the orgasm builds and builds and then— breaks.

She explodes.

Literally.

The noises that rip from her throat are loud and high pitched but Lexa refuses to call it a scream. She comes so hard energy flies out from her, and the photos on the wall next to her go shooting off the walls to crash and shatter, and Clarke is tossed backwards like a rag doll, the room flashing as her shield snaps on as she sails six feet in the air to slam hard into the kitchen wall, her shield like a bubble around her, and then crumples to the ground. All Lexa can do is gasp from how harshly Clarke’s fingers were yanked out of her, and moan as the orgasm continues crashing over her, relentless and overpowering, her knees buckling as she slides, twitching, to the floor.

 _“Fuck. Fuck,”_ she finds herself whimpering however long later, whether it was several seconds or a couple minutes. Shifts where she sits and gasps again as her thighs rub together and put pressure on her oversensitive clit. She finally notices that Clarke is sitting across the room from her, and high above her head there’s a large crack in the wall from where she made contact.

“Are you okay?” Lexa blurts.

Clarke looks up, dazed, and a grin grows across her face as she blinks at Lexa. “Fuck. I’m fantastic. You?”

Lexa’s laughter bubbles out of her. A moment later, Clarke is joining in. It’s strange. Very strange. Lexa can’t even remember the last time she laughed like this— long and drawn out and real. By the slight uncertainty that flashes across Clarke’s face afterwards, Lexa suspects the sentiment is shared.

And by the way Clarke clears her throat and gets to her feet, she clearly wants to spare time thinking about that every bit as much as Lexa does, which is to say— not at all.

“Come on,” Clarke says, offering a hand for Lexa. Lexa allows her to pull her up, her legs shaky beneath her. She blinks, swallowing, heart thudding at the sudden proximity when Clarke steps close and brushes a feather-light kiss across the sharp line of Lexa’s jaw. “I’ve only just started with you.”

A part of Lexa suspected Clarke would be vengeful enough to lead her down into the basement, and suggest it’s Lexa’s turn to be tied up. Instead Clarke leads her upstairs and straight to the bed. She pushes her down onto it and climbs on after her, knees bracketing Lexa’s hips, and kisses her for a time before descending, peeling off Lexa’s pants as she does so, followed by her own. Lexa pushes up onto her elbows and watches her hungrily as one by one, Clarke’s articles of clothing are strewn across the floor. Then all traces of Wanheda are gone, and Clarke crawls into her lap again.

They kiss for a time, hands roaming expanses of soft, warm skin. Clarke grinds slowly, enough it drives Lexa crazy. She just wants to touch her. 

“No,” Clarke whispers, grasping Lexa’s wrist to pull her hand out from between her legs. She interlocks their wet fingers and pins Lexa’s hand above her head. “I’m making you come right now.” Her lips quirk up on one side, crooked and doing funny things to Lexa’s heart. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Lexa says, and her voice is quiet enough she fears it’s deafening. It gives Clarke pause from where she’d been pressing kisses to Lexa’s chest, and she looks up at her, something contemplative in her eyes.

“I want to,” she finally says, and doesn’t give Lexa the time to process it at all before she’s swirling her tongue around Lexa’s nipple. 

Lexa’s breath hitches, her back arching, pushing more of herself into Clarke’s mouth. After a moment Clarke switches to the other, left hand rising up to sweep her thumb over the stiff nipple she’d just left behind, wet with saliva, and then trails down, over quivering abdominal muscles and the sharp jut of Lexa’s hip. 

Clarke kisses her way down and Lexa is left feeling as though she’s burning up from the inside out, flames licking at the inside of her skin, growing with intensity with each brush of Clarke’s lips across her overheated flesh as she descends until suddenly she’s settling between Lexa’s legs. Lexa cracks her eyes open, panting, looking down to see the way Clarke’s lashes flutter as she takes in a deep, fortifying breath.

“Fuck, you smell good.”

Lexa bites the tip of her tongue to suffocate the whimper before it can crawl out of her throat. Clarke continues breathing her in, humming in appreciation as the tip of her nose traces the line of Lexa’s slit. Then her hands are curling over Lexa’s thighs and pushing them apart, and Lexa trembles all the way down to her toes as Clarke’s warm breath washes over her.

“I bet you taste even better.”

Lexa’s eyes roll up into her head at the first sensation of Clarke’s tongue gliding through her. Her ears ring with her own panting filling the room, the wet sounds of Clarke working her up. 

Pleasure radiates from the point of contact and Lexa’s chest heaves as she struggles to breathe. It’s never felt this good. Clarke’s fingers dig into the meat of her thighs and her tongue squelches inside her and she can _feel_ the throaty hum of approval Clarke gives as she buries her face even deeper, can _hear_ the audible swallow as Lexa’s arousal fills her mouth. Nothing has ever felt this good and once again Lexa finds herself at the precipice in record time. It used to take her ages to come; she used to find it so easy to give orgasms and so tedious to await her own, but Clarke licks into her and Lexa is certain the world could be on fire around them and she would not notice. Her head spins and her heart threatens to beat out of her very chest and nothing has ever, _ever_ felt this good before.

She comes so hard she blacks out.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When she comes to, they’re still in bed; she must have only been out for a moment, because Clarke is still sprawled out between her legs, head resting on Lexa’s thigh and hand absently tracing patterns up the length of Lexa’s twitching stomach. She lingers at the side of her lower belly. Clarke’s fingers drift over the wound, a shuttered expression on her face, and Lexa answers without prompting because she knows Clarke isn’t going to ask.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Her voice is a raspy croak. She clears it, as Clarke glances up at her. “It’s healed now.”

It’s lucky, really, Lexa thinks. Not only did it miss any organs, but the fact that it was a stab wound makes it easier. If it had been a gunshot, Lexa’s not sure her powers would have been fast enough.

She’s never let herself get shot, and she’s not about to test the theory to find out.

Clarke doesn’t answer, lapsing into a pensive silence. When the silence stretches, Lexa is oddly compelled to break it.

“I’m surprised you didn’t kill me while I slept.”

Clarke is quiet for another moment, before crawling up to lay beside Lexa. “I would have, but I want mine first.”

Lexa scoffs incredulously, head rolling to look at her. “You didn’t take advantage of my unconsciousness to kill your greatest enemy because you haven’t came yet?”

Clarke half smirks, shrugging a shoulder, still looking up at the ceiling. “I like my orgasms, what can I say.”

“And no one gives you them like I do,” Lexa ventures, smirking herself when Clarke rolls her eyes but doesn’t offer a retort. “So, what, we’re fuck buddies? Something has to break sooner or later, Clarke.”

“We can worry about the later, later. Right now,” Clarke rolls over and climbs up, swings a leg over Lexa’s hip and pulls herself up to straddle her. Lexa’s hands move to her hips automatically, stomach bottoming out at the sensation of wet heat smearing over her stomach. “I think we should just concentrate on the fucking.”

Lexa’s breath hitches; she licks her lips, mouth suddenly dry, as Clarke gives a lazy roll of her hips, painting Lexa’s skin with her wetness. 

There’s paint everywhere, Lexa realizes. Her war paint has smudged, stained Clarke’s face, her neck, her shoulder, her chest, everywhere Lexa laid her head while Clarke fucked her against the wall. 

“Take a shower with me,” she finds herself murmuring before she can think the better of it.

Clarke pauses, brows piquing in interest. Her answer is the slow crawl of her smirk, and Lexa’s stomach lurches with anticipation.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“God, _yes_ , _fuck_ , just like— just like that, _Lexa, fuck_ —”

Lexa presses her to the shower wall, hot water streaming over their bodies. It’s steamy in the cubicle; almost too humid, but nothing could stop this. Nothing could stop the slow arch of Clarke’s body against her own; the way she reaches behind herself to grip Lexa’s wrist and urge her deeper, higher inside her. Lexa fucks her with three fingers, teeth buried in the tense muscles where Clarke’s shoulder meets her neck, and relishes every keening gasp that tumbles out of Clarke’s lips in response. Her other arm snakes around Clarke’s front, shifting from the full wet breast in her hand, the hard nipple she rolls over her fingertips, and down to the stiff, swollen clit throbbing beneath the pad of her thumb. She slaps at it, holding Clarke when she bucks in protests; eases away when Clarke begs for more.

“Fuck! _Lexa,_ more—” 

Lexa doesn’t miss the fact that with her hand lodged so firmly inside Clarke, nestled from behind, her wrist is pressed between Clarke’s ass cheeks, rubbing up against her with each thrust, and Clarke has had no qualms with it. Has, in fact, seemed to moan even louder, back arching as she tips her ass higher, straining for more contact. The new possibilities have Lexa’s head spinning, have her dazedly sucking a bruise into the back of Clarke’s neck.

Before she can do much with them, Clarke is coming. Lexa lurches forward with her, presses her completely against the shower wall, propping her up with her body when Clarke begins a heavy slump down. Clarke slams her splayed hand on the wall to brace herself, face screwed up with pleasure as she presses it to the wall and shudders through the last remnants of her orgasm. Lexa just listens to her pant, feels her twitches, and begins to slowly extricate herself, until Clarke’s raspy voice sounds above the spray of the water.

“Again.”

Lexa licks her lips, more heat flooding through her. She really can’t wrap her head around how unbelievably relentless and _hot_ Clarke is.

“God, you never stop, do you?”

Clarke’s chuckle is breathless, throaty. “Something you should have already learned about me,” she tells her as she turns, before nudging her to move.

They stagger out of the shower long enough to stumble into the bedroom next door, towels dropping forgotten to the ground as they share deep, desperate, all-consuming kisses, hair soaked and dripping into the carpet. Lexa turns Clarke around in her arms again, eager to feel her ass nestled between her hips, to run her hands all over her body, rubbing her nipples and massaging her breasts, kissing Clarke’s neck and relishing the noises it drags from her throat. 

She bends Clarke over the foot of the bed, exhaling in approval as she runs her palms along the curves of her ass before gripping her thighs and pulling, indicating for Clarke to spread them.

“Where do you want me?” she breathes, watching with sharp eyes as Clarke’s body trembles, quivers beneath her touch, slow, careful fingertips tracing lightly over the line of her back.

“Inside,” Clarke husks.

There’s zero resistance as Lexa immediately pushes two fingers inside her. Clarke’s cunt is drenched and open for her, inner muscles fluttering and clenching greedily at her fingers. 

“Oh, Lexa,” Clarke’s voice catches as her breath hitches; she shudders again and again, hips grinding in the air as Lexa slowly thrusts in and out. “Just— touch me.”

She already is, but Clarke must want more. Lexa kneels with one knee on the bed, half draping herself against Clarke’s ass so she can lean forward to slip her free arm beneath her torso, cupping one soft full breast in her hand, rolling her thumb over a stiff nipple.

“ _Lexa…_ ” There’s a note of longing in her voice, something bordering on frustration; clearly Clarke craves more. 

Lexa drops to her knees at once, dips her head just under one of Clarke’s legs to reach her clit with her tongue. It’s a difficult angle, doing this from behind with her fingers lodged inside her, but her tongue has a long reach and she just manages it.

Yet in little time, Clarke is speaking again.

“Oh, fuck, Lexa. _Touch_ me, please.”

Lexa wets her lips, breath coming faster. If Clarke is begging, she’s desperate. “Where, Clarke?”

“I want you everywhere,” Clarke moans, splitting her legs wider and tipping her ass up, providing a tantalizing view that has Lexa’s mouth going dry. “Fuck, I want you— I want you _everywhere_.”

The words have Lexa’s stomach lurching, twisting with a desire so dark and overwhelming her knees actually tremble. 

She continues pumping two fingers deep for a moment, sucking on Clarke’s clit long enough to have her shuddering before drawing back, licking her way down her vulva and over her entrance and her own fingers. She drags her tongue up, up, _up_ — and she knows she made the right decision when she reaches it because the moment she begins lapping, a ragged, desperate gasp tears out of Clarke’s throat. Lexa scissors her fingers inside her as she works her tongue around, floating over fluttering muscles to loosen them. She pushes her tongue inside as she pushes a third finger into her cunt, presses in deep while Clarke’s keening cries echo around the room.

It’s strange and almost difficult to equate this Clarke with the one Lexa thought she knew weeks ago. She never could have imagined then that the soft, sweet woman she was dating then would have been into something like this. Or perhaps she would have if she gave it much thought before...and considering Lexa was playing a rather demure role herself, it’s little wonder she hadn’t. But perhaps there were signs, now that she thinks about it. Times she felt Clarke’s gaze lingering on her, intense and pupil-blown and then softened in a blink when Clarke caught her and smiled. There was a certain dark intensity always brimming below the surface, and it was that Lexa had always found...curious.

And now she’s finally exploring it, and she doesn’t think she’s ever been so wet in her life as she is right now, realizing how into this Clarke is, how compatible they are. _God_.

“You like that?” she murmurs, her own eyes nearly rolling as Clarke’s cries grow louder and louder, joining the rhythmic creaking off the bed and the wet, sloppy sounds of her soaked pussy. “Tell me how often you thought of this. When we fucked the other day, were you imagining this?” A particularly loud groan answers Lexa’s question more than Clarke verbalizing it ever could. 

“Fuck, yes,” moans Clarke, grinding her hips and riding Lexa’s face. “God, yes, yes.”

Lexa pushes her tongue in, and out; pushes her fingers out, and in. “You could have just asked. Maybe I was thinking about it too.”

“Like— like I’d ask Alexandria Woodward to fuck my ass,” pants Clarke. 

“I speak with accuracy when I say Alexandria Woodward would love to fuck your ass any day, Ms Griffin.”

“You’re fucking Wanheda, too,” says Clarke, very nearly snarling as Lexa pushes her tongue in deeper, emphasizing it with a long, punishing thrust of her fingers in her cunt. “Remember that.”

“As if I could forget,” says Lexa lowly. She reaches her free hand up to cup a heavy breast in her palm, roughly rolling a stiff nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Clarke looks entirely too in control at the moment, body undulating under Lexa’s touch, so Lexa decides she needs to be taught a lesson. 

She draws back, ignoring the noise of protest Clarke makes as she withdraws her fingers from her cunt, followed by the hitch of her breath as Lexa drags her drenched fingers down the length of her pussy and then slipping away to continue from the other angle, drifting higher.

“You’re being fucked by the Commander.” She carefully pushes a wet finger inside her, burning with satisfaction at the way Clarke clenches and shudders below her. “ _You_ remember that.”

Clarke’s answer comes in the form of a high pitched moan, muscles fluttering around Lexa, gripping her tightly. The moan drops an octave, stutters into a sigh when Lexa fully pushes in. 

“God,” Clarke’s words drip with nearly as much sex as what’s painting down her thighs. Her voice is caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, choked and strangled and desperate. “Fuck. That’s— that’s _so_ good.”

“Is it?” Lexa slowly pushes in, up to the second knuckle, rubbing her own thighs together to alleviate the throbbing need between them; she knows how Clarke feels right now, and she’s a little jealous, truth be told.

“ _Yes_ , fuck, yes. Don’t stop.”

Nothing could stop this, save for Clarke herself. The world could explode and Lexa would fuck her through it if it meant even a moment inside her again, feeling her squeeze around her fingers, listening to the grunts and moans tearing from her throat.

“More,” Clarke manages, spreading her legs even wider, back arching as she bends to tip up even higher, face burying in the mattress. 

“More what?”

“More fingers. I told you, I want you everywhere.”

She’s clearly not distracted enough if she can take such a tone with her. Lexa tilts her head, studying Clarke as she pulls out slightly and then pushes back in, hard. Clarke gasps, moans, shudders.

She does it again, and again, until Clarke can’t seem to do much more than grunt and whimper. And then she leans down, lips dragging over Clarke’s upper back, moving higher, brushing her wet hair away with her free hand.

“Does your cunt feel empty right now?” asks Lexa, voice low, positively dripping. She scrapes her teeth down the sweaty curve of Clarke’s neck before bringing her lips to her ear again. “Lonely?”

“God,” shudders Clarke, ass canting.

“You want me inside it? Filling you up?”

“Oh,” moans Clarke, mindlessly canting back again. Lexa slaps her ass, hard, and Clarke jolts. Shudders. _“Oh.”_

“Answer me.”

“Fuck, Lexa— “

“You want me fucking your pussy or your ass?”

“I-I-” Clarke shakes her head, bewildered and lost in pleasure, and Lexa slaps her ass hard enough it leaves a handprint behind. “Fuck, yes,” hisses Clarke, back arching. “Both, I want both.”

“How do you want it?”

“Those long fucking fingers- in my cunt. Your tongue in my-” She gasps as Lexa drifts her thumb over her ass. “In my ass, oh, Lexa, please, _fuck_ me-”

She doesn’t take pity on her— Lexa tells herself that, even as she does exactly what Clarke begs for, and uses her other hand to push three fingers deep into Clarke’s already pulsating cunt. Lexa is doing this because _she_ wants to; because there’s something impossibly satisfying about slamming into Clarke with both hands, about not having to worry about her inhuman strength breaking Clarke open. If anything, it’s a good thing Lexa has her powers, because she imagines if she were human, Clarke’s body squeezing around her would have already broken her fingers. She’s so tight and wet, even more so when Lexa looks toward the distant dresser and summons the lube out of the first drawer, ignoring Clarke’s whine when she pulls her finger out and has the lube squeeze out above them, a generous lather that has Clarke keening again when Lexa pushes back in with two fingers this time.

“ _FUCK_ ,” Clarke cries, body shaking violently as Lexa moves inside her.

Clarke asked for tongue, and Lexa’s not giving her that. It’s as far as she can go right now, in terms of maintaining at least some semblance of control and not just letting Clarke have her way entirely. 

Though she suspects even that is a stretch, because Clarke certainly seems to have no complaints about Lexa’s fingers. Each moan stretches out, blends into the next, until there’s a constant litany of sounds, the wet squelching as Lexa fucks her serving as the backdrop. She loses count of how many times Clarke mumbles her name, an endless stream that hovers somewhere between praying for salvation and begging for destruction. Lexa gives her both. 

“That’s it,” Lexa encourages. “Come for me again.”

She wants it even more than she wants to come herself, and she’s not disappointed. Not by the way Clarke goes still, clenching so tightly around Lexa’s fingers it hurts before she convulses, shudders, cries out loudly enough it’s more of a scream. She floods Lexa’s hand, cunt gushing more than Lexa ever could have imagined it would— and she imagined.

Clarke half collapses on the bed, twitching and quaking as Lexa carefully removes her fingers. She just watches Clarke for a moment, sprawled out on her front, face smashed into the mattress, breathing hard until it eventually evens out; even then, Clarke’s eyes don’t open. Lexa’s not sure if she passed out or not, but just in case she lightly trails her wet fingers over the curve of Clarke’s ass, whispering, “I’m going to go wash up. I’ll be right back.”

Clarke’s response is nothing more than a muffled grunt, and Lexa purses her lips to hide the amused quirk of them as she crosses the room into the bathroom. 

She washes her hands and her mouth out, feeling a bit dazed as she revisits the past hour in her head. This has been the best sex of her life. And with her worst enemy. She meant what she said earlier. Sooner or later something would have to break. 

Clarke has flopped over onto her back by the time Lexa returns to the room, spread eagle and eyes closed; she could be sleeping. Lexa’s mouth runs dry again at all the bare curves on display for her. 

She could kill her right now. Clarke’s shield wasn’t up. With nothing but a glance Lexa could snap her neck. With a twitch of her hand, she could have her blood clotting. She could kill her in five seconds flat.

She tries not to think about what it means that she doesn’t. That she crawls onto the bed beside her instead, breath a bit shaky as she exhales a sigh. 

For a moment, it’s quiet and still and calm. And then Lexa learns Clarke is decidedly not asleep, by the way she suddenly rolls over half onto Lexa. 

“Are you kidding?” Lexa says in disbelief as Clarke climbs into her lap. 

“Are you telling me you aren’t wet again from all that?” Lexa shivers as Clarke’s teeth graze her ear. “I think I should return the favor.” She sucks on her ear lobe, softly biting down when Lexa shudders. “I think I should return _all_ the favors.”

Lexa can’t suppress the moan that crawls up her throat at the thought, and judging by the smirk pressed against her neck, Clarke seems to take it as the answer it is. 

“Get that pretty ass over here then,” she said, tossing her weight back and pulling, spinning so Lexa’s suddenly on her front stretched out on the mattress before her. Lexa shivers, soaked and throbbing at the sensation of Clarke’s heavy breasts dragging over her back as Clarke leans down, presses hot open mouthed kisses to the back of Lexa’s neck. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about doing this.”

“I think I have an idea.”

Lexa’s breath hitches, catches, when she feels Clarke’s fingers trailing low down the line of her back, over the curve of her ass, before suddenly disappearing. Her stomach bottoms out when she hears the snap of the lube opening. 

“You’re about to find out.”

Lexa’s moan is the first of many for the remainder of the night.  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Lexa is awake by the time Clarke returns from washing up in the bathroom. Her body feels as though it’s half a beat away from melting into the mattress; she is sated and pleasantly sore and certain she’s never had such a satisfying night in her life.

And now she’s filled with dread and frustrated disappointment in herself.

Clearly Clarke is feeling the same way, because she’d crawled back into bed and lay there for several minutes before finally breaking the silence. “This can’t happen again.”

Lexa stares up at the ceiling. Her eyes shut. “I know.”

Clarke is quiet, for a moment. Then:

“If you don’t stay out of my way, then the next time I stab you...it’ll be in a place you won’t be healing from.”

Lexa’s lips twist sardonically, but she doesn’t open her eyes. “Ironic you say that, when you’ve always been the one who won’t stay out of _my_ path.”

Clarke makes a noise somewhere between a _tsk_ and a scoff. “I’ve always minded my own business.”

Lexa snorts. “You’ve always been fucking with _my_ business and that’s exactly the problem.”

“Really.” At her tone, Lexa turns to look at Clarke and finds her staring at her with an arched brow, skeptical and arrogant. “Then why didn’t you make a move to kill me before?”

“You were useful, before. You were taking out Azgeda. That’s beneficial to me.”

“I was doing your dirty work for you, is that what you’re saying?”

“You could hardly classify it as such when you weren’t working for me. It was a happy coincidence that worked in my favour. When you took down the mountain, it was no longer in my favour.”

“You wanted the mountain to fall. Everyone knows that. You’ve been going after them for how long? But you took too much time.”

Lexa closes her eyes and sighs deeply. “I told you it was a delicate process, and you just...blew it up.”

“Yeah, well.” Clarke sighs too. “Shit happens.”

The mattress bounces slightly as Clarke suddenly sits up; Lexa opens her eyes to see her sitting on the foot of the bed, the pale expanse of her back curved, muscles flexing as she reaches down to pull her socks back on. Lexa shifts too, ignoring how soaked the mattress is beneath her and how she sits in a puddle. 

“You’re going after the child, aren’t you.”

Clarke pulls on her bra, back still to Lexa. “I told you she’s mine to kill.”

“And she’s mine to protect.”

“I don’t _care_ if she’s Natblida,” Clarke says sharply. When Lexa doesn’t answer right away, Clarke twists around to level a glare on her. “Yeah, I figured that’s why you went after her.”

“Regardless of the colour of her blood, she is still a child. You know we don’t touch children.”

“I’m not in your fucking coalition so _we_ does not apply here. And I don’t care that she’s a child, she’s a psychopath. Trust me, it’s for the good of this whole damn city if she’s gone.”

Lexa watches her stand, searching around for her shirt. Lexa taps her own knee absently. “What happened to you, Clarke?”

Clarke frowns, ducking to search under the bed for her shirt. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what happened to turn you into who you are. Wanheda.”

Clarke makes an angry noise, though Lexa cannot see her face. “I don’t have a tragic backstory, Lexa. I just like to kill people. It’s really not that complicated.”

Lexa exhales a huff of amusement through her nostrils. “Unless you’re a straight white man, everyone has a tragic backstory.”

“Yeah, and how many of them enjoy killing people in their free time?”

“Probably a fair amount more than we’d guess,” says Lexa mildly.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Anyway, don’t act like you don’t get off to killing people. We all do. That’s the main reason why we do it.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, bullshit. You think you’re above it all but I see right through you.”

Lexa doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Have you always had your powers?”

Clarke huffs as she straightens up, wrinkled shirt in hand, and pulls it on. “Why the third degree? Don’t make me think you actually care.”

“It’s called being curious,” Lexa drawls. “Did you grow up in Polis?”

“No, now stop asking me questions. Where is my underwear?”

Lexa shrugs. She doesn’t know and doesn’t care. 

“Have you always had sonraun?”

Clarke fishes her underwear out from the side of the mattress pressed up against the wall, and shoots Lexa a confused look. “What the hell is that?”

“You don’t know the old words?”

“No.” She looks annoyed as she slips her underwear on, then her trousers. “I’m not from here, remember?”

Lexa nods. “Son means sun, raun means around. The movement of the earth around the sun. The sun moves around you.”

That gives Clarke pause. “It’s not just fire.” She thoughtfully studies her own hands as though they’ll tell her something. “It’s more like...light. It’s closer to electricity than fire but it works like...like a fast acid almost. It just eats away everything in seconds.”

“Regardless. That is what we call those skills.”

Clarke sits on the edge of the bed again, pulling on her boots. “You know others with it?”

“Not exactly. Similar ones. But I mean that is the name given to your powers specifically. We have studied you for years now.”

Clarke’s face twists in disdain as she laces up her shoes. “Because that’s not creepy at all.”

“From a distance, obviously.” Lexa smirks, baring her teeth just enough to be threatening. “If we had been able to study you up close, I would have killed you a long time ago.”

Clarke smirks right back, the ghost of her skull mask lighting up pale and eerie over her face. “You could have _tried_.” She’s up on her feet then, stretching, seemingly uncaring that Lexa is right there and her shield is down. Lexa doesn’t know who she’s kidding anymore. She swallows thickly as her gaze drifts down, lingering on the strip of skin exposed from Clarke’s shirt rising up as she stretches. Then she’s exhaling and shrugging on her jacket— the one she stole from Lexa.

“I want that back,” Lexa says firmly, scowling when Clarke just smirks.

“Do you have any food in this place or is that too much to ask for?”

Lexa bites her tongue to fend off a crude response. “Planning to eat before going off to murder a child?”

“Yep.” Clarke doesn’t wait for a response, heading out the door and down the stairs, leaving Lexa naked in bed, eyes narrowed as she watches her hips sway as she leaves.

Lexa remains in place even as Clarke descends the stairs. She drags a hand over her face and through the wild mane of her hair. God. What is she _doing?_

She jolts a moment later when her phone vibrates. Her stomach lurches. She sweeps the blankets back and finds her pants crumpled at the foot of the bed. She fishes her phone out of a pocket, and her blood turns to ice in her veins as Gustus’s code name flashes across the screen at her. 

She can’t answer it, not when Clarke is here. But she also can’t leave it. He’ll be suspicious.

Lexa dismisses the call and opens up her texts. 

**_Text from Lexa 5:42am:_ **

_What do you want?_

**_Text from Gustus 5:42am:_ **

_Where are you? Are you safe?_

**_Text from Lexa 5:43am:_ **

_Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?_

_**Text from Gustus 5:43am:** _

_Word has travelled. The Commander and Wanheda were spotted fighting in old Azgeda territory._

Lexa’s shoulders stiffen, her grip on the phone tightening enough a tiny crack appears in the corner. She slackens her grasp before it can shatter in her hand.

**_Text from Gustus 5:44am:_ **

_You are safe then? Is Wanheda dead?_

Lexa moves her jaw back and forth, nostrils flaring. She taps her fingers on the side of her phone as she thinks it over. She could make this come true. Clarke had stabbed her only hours ago. Her guard is down. She could do it.

_**Text from Gustus 5:45am:** _

_Where are you?_

That’s just...absolutely not something he needs to know right now. She leaves him on read.

She dresses quickly. Pushes the blood out from her eyes to apply her warpaint the old fashioned style. Pulls her wild hair up out of her face and descends the stairs.

She finds Clarke rummaging around in her kitchen. She’s barely shorter than Lexa, but apparently it’s enough of a difference that she has to stretch onto the tip of her toes in order to reach for the box of granola bars up on the top shelf. Lexa folds her arms beneath her chest and leans against the door jam, watching in vague amusement as Clarke struggles, making noises of frustration. She makes it clear a moment later that she’s seconds from climbing onto the counters that Titus just cleaned, so Lexa twitches a finger and the box floats off the shelf and down where Clarke can grab it. Clarke shoots her a look over her shoulder that Lexa chooses to take as appreciation, despite the fact that Clarke does not offer so much as a thank you.

“You know I won’t let you kill her.”

Clarke ignores her, ripping open the box and tearing a granola bar wrapper open with her teeth. 

“Why don’t you just send her to me?” Lexa tries a different tactic, even though she knows, long before even opening her mouth, that it’s a lost cause. Her instincts are proven correct when Clarke shoots her a dour expression. “If she is Natblida, she is my responsibility. She needs guidance and support.”

“Guidance and support?” Clarke swallows the bite she’d just taken and looks incredulously at Lexa. “In what? Learning how to kill people? How to run an underground crime ring?”

“In learning how to use her abilities,” Lexa snaps, shoulders rigid now. “In learning how to protect herself and how to hide herself.”

“Lexa, I already told you. She deserves to die. Her very existence is a threat to this city. The kinder thing to do is to just end her life now, before she can make things worse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You know what, how about I just sit back and wait, then.” Clarke crushes the empty wrapper, clearly losing her patience now. She throws the wrapper on the ground and Lexa sends it soaring through the air and straight into the bin. “The idiot is roaming around Azgeda with no protection, I can just leave her for the sharks. I’m sure it won’t take Natrona long to find another nightblood, right?”

“Leaving her for Ontari is the worst fate of all,” Lexa snarls.

Clarke lifts a brow. “Ontari?”

“You know her as Natrona,” Lexa says coolly. “I take it you’ve been lucky enough never to come across her.”

“I have came across her before, actually.”

Lexa stares, astonished. “And she let you live?”

Clarke makes a scathing, angry noise. “Let me live? How do you propose she kill me when she can’t break through my shield, Lexa?”

“She would find a way,” Lexa says darkly.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Well, she didn’t even see me. I had my shield up and was invisible.”

“Are you certain it was her?”

“Yes,” Clarke says impatiently, “She’s the creepy Natblida, right? Short, dark hair, scars all over her face, carries around a huge-ass gourd strapped to her back?”

Lexa clenches her jaw at the description and nods shortly. 

“Yeah. Came across her in Azgeda territory once years ago. Nothing much happened, she was just meeting with someone and their meeting happened to be close to the area I was staking out.”

Lexa frowns. “Meeting? With who?”

“No idea. Some woman. Didn’t look familiar and I’ve never seen her since.”

Lexa lapses into thoughtful silence, wondering who the hell Ontari could have met. As far as she knew, Ontari worked alone since Nia’s demise. The idea of her teaming up is troubling...

“Why does she kill her own kind?” Clarke is looking curiously at Lexa.

Lexa shakes her head, the familiar rage gripping her heart. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Clarke stares at her for a beat longer, expression inscrutable. Then she shrugs, as though it never mattered in the first place.

“Well.” She takes a breath, and Lexa waits expectantly, face blank to ward off the wince— this is the awkward moment. The morning after. The farewell. Clarke hesitates, as though she’s not quite sure what to say— and really, what do they say? They’re mortal enemies who spent the night inside each other, and not the way it should have been, with knives and bullets. The same thought flickers visibly over Clarke’s face, before she just offers a short nod, and makes to walk around Lexa, out of the kitchen, out of the safehouse. But just as she passes beside her, Lexa’s hand shoots out to grasp her wrist. Clarke turns on her, crowds her up against the kitchen counter in an instant, one hand on her throat. Lexa tries to ignore the fact that her heart rate has kicked up, her stomach lurching pleasantly.

“Are we _really_ going to do this again?” Clarke’s voice is low, dark, dangerous.

“You know I can’t let you touch Natblida,” Lexa says, voice just as dangerous, fingers also wrapped around Clarke’s throat. 

Clarke lifts one brow. “I spent the whole night touching Natblida.”

Lexa makes a show of rolling her eyes. Her skin burns beneath Clarke’s touch. “You aren’t nearly as amusing as you think you are.”

Clarke leans in, lips just brushing across Lexa’s, and Lexa’s stomach bottoms out. “I spent the whole night tasting Natblida.”

“Clarke.” She says it like a warning, and just like a warning, Clarke doesn’t heed it.

“Lexa.” Clarke whispers her name, lips grazing again. She slips her tongue out to tease it over the swell of Lexa’s bottom lip, and Lexa’s breath catches. She’s suddenly all too aware of every inch of the front of Clarke’s body pressed into hers, and the hard jut of the counter at her back. Clarke’s breasts are soft and full, pushed up against her own. Her hips already lined up with her own.

Fuck it.

Lexa kisses her more fully, hand sliding from her throat to the back of her neck, and Clarke’s hand follows suit, slipping up into Lexa’s wild hair. They both exhale shuddery breaths as their tongues meet, as their bodies press more insistently together. Hands explore soft curves and firm muscle, and Lexa is moments away from lifting Clarke onto the countertop and eating a proper breakfast when it happens.

Her stomach drops, and not in the pleasant way it has been. She stiffens, all the hairs on her body rising, heart stuttering in her chest; something isn’t right. Lifts her head and looks around, taking in a deep breath; she can taste it in the air. That tingle of something— the promise of blood.

“Clarke,” she says sharply, and repeats it when Clarke only drops her head to kiss her neck, oblivious to Lexa’s sudden alarm. “Stop.”

Clarke does so at once, pulling back with a frown. “What is it?”

Lexa doesn’t answer, too busy pushing away from the counter to walk forward, head tilted, ears straining. 

Clarke has fallen silent too, perhaps picking up on the same intuition. She walks slowly to where Lexa stands, listening, waiting.

“Lexa,” she whispers in the quiet. Then she stiffens.

Whatever it is, Clarke sees it before Lexa does; her blue eyes widen over Lexa’s shoulder, and all at once her hands are jumping up to grip Lexa’s shoulders and abruptly yanking her forward, reversing their positions. Once Lexa’s before her and stumbling backwards, Lexa catches a brief glimpse of a bomb clattering to the kitchen’s tile floor before Clarke is bodily tackling her down— 

And then it explodes, and everything goes white.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Clarke holds her down as best she can, in spite of Lexa’s wriggling. Fire and debris swirl around her shield, and for a long moment, the world exists only in shades of red, yellow, and orange, bathing Lexa’s skin like a painting. There’s a last flare and a shudder beneath them as part of the roof caves in, and crashes down over Clarke’s shield, breaking to pieces over the dome; Lexa squeezes her eyes shut, bowing her head into the crook of Clarke’s neck. The heat is unbearable, so Clarke pushes her shield out farther from them, grits her teeth and holds it, only just aware of how Lexa’s grip digs into her hips, holds her tightly over her, every inch of their fronts pressed together. 

Finally it tempers down. As it begins to fade, Clarke lets the cold press of her shield soak into her skin and seep over Lexa as well. When Lexa wriggles again, Clarke warningly squeezes Lexa’s bicep from where she was pressing her into the floor. 

“Stop moving, we’re invisible right now,” she whispers into Lexa’s ear. “Someone just attacked us. Hang on.”

For once, Lexa actually listens, though her jaw is clenched and her eyes angry, presumably at whoever the fuck just threw a bomb into her precious safe house. 

They remain where they are, still, waiting, Clarke’s shield pulsing in time with her heart. It’s only another couple minutes before something happens; Lexa catches the sounds before Clarke does, lifting her head higher, alert, gaze fixed on the huge hole in the kitchen wall from the blast. A dozen soldiers climb through, heavy rifles at the ready. They’re in all black, helmets and googles on, and nothing about their attire indicates a side— they aren’t Azgeda or Maunon, nor are they Polis PD or any recognizable heroes. Who the fuck are they?

“Spread out,” they hear one man call to another. “Wanheda could still be alive, she has a shield!”

“Doubt even that bitch could survive napalm like that,” another man mutters; the men around him chuckle in grim amusement but they all lift their guns, slowly scanning the room for any sign of movement. 

“Do you know who they are?” Clarke breathes into Lexa’s ear. Lexa shakes her head minutely, jaw clenched so tightly she looks to be in danger of a tooth cracking. “We’ll have to find out, then.”

“All we need is one,” Lexa whispers.

The look they both exchange is not as grim as it should be. Bloodlust is the only word Clarke can think of.

She makes to move but stills when Lexa warningly squeezes her hip. Clarke understands why a moment later, when Lexa looks up and extends an arm, twitching her fingers. A knife lifts out of the sink and slowly floats to the ground, sharp side up. Another twitch of her fingers and the nearest soldier trips over thin air, and when he falls, his head lands on the knife with a sick _schlik_.

“This place is booby-trapped!” a soldier shouts as general pandemonium ensues. 

“Shut up, everybody stay calm! She’s here somewhere. Find her.”

The soldiers are growing closer and closer and soon enough, it’s no longer feasible to stay where they are. Clarke has no qualms about that. She’s _ready_.

She and Lexa crawl over to the doorway the soldiers haven’t reached yet. They separate under the understanding that Lexa will step in when the moment is right. Clarke walks back into the kitchen, and pulls back her shield, slipping back into view, skull mask gleaming on her face. The nearest soldiers cry out, and soon they all face her, alert, guns at the ready.

“We have her scared, men!” a soldier shouts, which draws Clarke up short, nose wrinkling in outrage and disbelief. _Scared?_

“She’s shaking, look at her!”

Clarke pauses, scowling, the back of her neck warming as she realizes her legs are indeed trembling beneath her— but Jesus Christ. Every part of her is sore. She lost count of how many orgasms she’d had. Who the fuck wouldn’t be shaking after that? She can’t help but glance Lexa’s way where she lingers in the shadows of the doorway, waiting, and Clarke’s scowl deepens at the smug curl to those pouty lips. Clarke grits her teeth, biting back a growl as she turns her attention to the soldiers again.

“Who are you?” Clarke asks, turning to face the soldiers again.

“Open fire,” shouts one, and Clarke huffs in irritation.

The bullets ricochet off her shield. She’s grateful Lexa was smart enough to step back while this part happened. A few soldiers are hit with the rebound and slump to the ground, blood seeping out over the tile. Clarke has no sooner wondered how angry Lexa is about her safe house being ruined than Lexa steps out, face hard with fury.

_“Enough.”_

Lexa lifts a hand, fingers splayed, and every man left in the room- nearly half a dozen- go still. Unnaturally still, oddly quaking in place as though wracked with tremors they’re swallowing down, or attempting to based on the quiet, choked gargles crawling out of their throats. Veins strain and protrude from their flushed skin, and their eyes bulge and roll, white and panic-stricken as they’re held in place by a woman who merely stands before them all with a single arm outstretched, hand up.

And Clarke, for the very first time, is afforded her first true glimpse of the Commander, and what she is known for. Her control over blood. Clarke never truly grasped how...immense, and powerful, it could be. In moments such as these. She stares at Lexa, awed and intrigued, impressed and compelled despite herself— and she would never admit the heat that pulsed through her lower stomach, but it was there and undeniable. 

Lexa tilts her head as her eyes bleed over. Black tears leak and crawl down her cheeks, forming what she so often donned as war paint. It isn’t just her; the men she holds under her control are leaking too, out of their eyes, their noses, their ears and mouths— even down lower, Clarke realizes, brows raising at the dark red blossoming on the mens’ trousers. Every orifice, they were bleeding out.

Then, just like that, it’s over. Lexa clenches her hand into a fist as suddenly as the men snap and collapse like puppets with their strings cut. Blood pools on the floor, the tile flooded over with it, washing out to stain the singed and debris-littered carpet. Clarke watches it with interest; such a pretty color.

“Clarke, behind you!”

Clarke turns, but a wall of red sloshes up between her and the door, hardening, absorbing the bullets that came at her- she shoots Lexa a withering look when Lexa just glances at her, exasperated, a hand outstretched to maintain the wall of blood she’d raised. 

“You do realize I have a shield of my own?”

“It was instinct,” Lexa responds with a roll of her eyes. 

The next shots ring out from the other direction, and Clarke has a hand on Lexa’s shoulder in an instant, though it’s not necessary; her shield extends in an instant, enveloping the both of them. The bullets hit with a dull thwack and fall ringing to the floor. Clarke grins wolfishly when Lexa rolls her eyes again. Then a dozen more soldiers are climbing in through the hole in the wall and in other areas now— the second story window, the front door— and suddenly there’s no room for amusement anymore.

It’s chaos.

Clarke stands with her legs bent and slightly apart, rooted firmly to the ground while she pushes and pulls her arms, throwing walls of glowing shields forward, knocking bullet and soldier alike out of the way. Lexa works at the edges, body moving fluidly and swords spinning, weaving in and out and all around as she takes down soldier after soldier, occasionally throwing a hand out to use her powers to blast them off their feet, flinging them into walls. 

They’ve been pushed back into the living room now by the sheer numbers, and the fact that it’s more space to work in. But it’s not until the remaining forces burst in that they truly face a problem.

Reapers.

Clarke and Lexa exchange a panicked look. 

Who the fuck let _reapers_ in? 

Powers don’t work on them. Everyone knows that. Lexa sticks to her swords and Clarke scrambles for one of the fallen soldiers’ guns. The men and women who tear into the house are full of rage and bloodlust, spitting and snarling as they try to kill them with their bare hands. They’re the only beings who can move through Clarke’s shield, and it has her heart racing and stomach churning as she hurdles around the room, shooting as many as she can while Lexa spins and slices in the center, struggling under the sheer number flooding over them. Clarke would take a dozen soldiers over one reaper. Who the fuck has done this? Who sent them here?

There are too many of them. They need to run. Clarke could run, right now— they’re distracted with Lexa, furious as she buries her sword in one’s neck, though he’s so large it takes her a moment to find the strength to yank it free. Clarke could leave her and it would kill two birds with one stone...she’d be free and the Commander would be left to fall, and be forever out of her hair. 

Goddamn it. 

Clarke aims her gun and shoots the reaper throwing itself at Lexa, hitting him right between the eyes. The noise alerts her fellows and they turn on Clarke, and she cries out as one tackles her to the ground. Her shield flashes uselessly as she struggles, arms extended and hands scrabbling over the reaper’s face even as he bites and snarls, foaming at the mouth, red eyes wheeling with fury and bloodlust, Clarke’s nails digging into his mottled skin.

Then Lexa is there, throwing him off her, and Clarke doesn’t even have the time to look at her before she’s rolling to her feet and lurching to the side to avoid the other one lunging at her. She and Lexa end up back to back, panting, swords and gun held aloft.

Clarke’s heart sinks as she looks at them surrounding them, circling them like predators herding in on the kill. She doesn’t understand. This must be Cage. It has to be. He’s already out of prison and the mountain has fallen and this is revenge. But how did he know she was here? It doesn’t make sense.

And now she’s about to die. There are still half a dozen of them left and she’s down to one bullet. Fuck. _Fuck_.

The nearest reaper lunges, and that’s when it happens.

A figure drops into view, quite literally leaping in. They’re in all black with a hood and a mask, and they’re wielding two swords of their own, spinning around with just as much grace as Lexa. Since they takes the reapers by surprise, they cut them down in no time at all— particularly when Lexa hurls forward to help, swords swinging, and Clarke puts her last bullet right between the eyes of the next reaper. 

Then the three of them stand amongst the carnage, Clarke and Lexa panting and haggard. They exchange a confused look before their gaze settles on the stranger who helped them.

They turn to look at them, pulling their hood back and their mask down, enough to reveal their face. It’s a woman. She’s beautiful, with the sharpest cheekbones Clarke has ever seen. She wears warpaint like Lexa, though not quite as dramatic, and her eyes are a startling shade of gold.

But apparently she’s only unfamiliar to Clarke, because beside her, Lexa gasps. 

_“Anya?”_

“We need to move, more are coming,” the woman says shortly. She walks to the window and kicks it open, stepping back to gesture. “If you value your lives, follow me."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery warnings for this chapter: some violence. Clarke stabs Lexa. Lexa lives. They fight some people, those people die, mostly in vague ways though one guy does trip and faceplate a knife, though that's brief too.  
> Then warnings for smut, of course. Smut that is not quite so vanilla. I had, shall we say, an anal sensitivity reader okay this for me. By that I mean I had a friend who is absolutely not into anal at all read this smut. She said it's hot as fuck, enough that she didn't mind the anal. So. Hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think.


End file.
